Stars Fade
by totallybursar
Summary: Shepard knows that destroying the Reapers will kill her. Except she's never been good at dying. The explosion of dark energy from the Crucible thrusts Shepard into a totally different universe. Post ME3 ending, DA2 Act 2 beginning. Please note that this is not a FemShep/F!Hawke fic.
1. Prologue

_A/N: Plot bunnies must die._

_ME/DA2 crossover. Post ME3 (not-totally-canon, but hey, I'm a hater) ending, DA2 Act 2 beginning. You've been warned._

_Shepard knows that destroying the reapers will cost her life. Except, she's never been particularly good at dying. The explosion of dark energy from the Crucible thrusts Shepard into a totally different universe. She wakes in a filthy hovel that smells like a sewer, and meets a young, wise-cracking rogue and her merry band of misfits. FemShep, F!Hawke. Rating M for later content - language, violence, smut._

* * *

**Prologue**

Everything she'd worked so hard for. Everything she'd lost, everything she'd sacrificed…

It was bullshit, that's what it was. All this… suffering. All this destruction. Horror upon horror, and somehow it was supposed to _preserve_ organic life in the galaxy?

_**Fuck**__ that_.

Shepard stared at the holographic image of the little human boy. "You're wrong," she said in a cracked whisper. "There's the proof," she managed a half nod out the window at the frenzied battle taking place over Earth. "The geth are out there, with their creators. Working together. United."

"The peace will not last," said the little boy, confidently.

"You can't know that."

"The pattern is clear. The cycle will repeat."

"And how often in the cycle have the created returned to their creator's side?" Shepard shouted. The agony from her broken body threated to overcome her will, darkness crowding in on the edges of her vision, but somehow, she remained standing.

"The cycle will repeat," the boy repeated, but there was somehow a sullen, discordant note to his voice.

Shepard laughed shortly, causing her breath to hitch in her chest and making her gasp. "Never. It's never happened before. You've never _allowed_ it to happen. And now that it has… you can't even respond to it. It's not in the script. Not part of the _cycle_," she growled the word. "You can't react to change, not really. You're just a machine." Her voice dropped to a whisper again. "Legion was a more evolved being - more evolved _person -_ than you'll ever be. We all are. You are _**nothing**_."

She dragged herself forward, paying for every inch with a galaxy of pain.

Control the Reapers, send them away - and salvage the technology, the relays, maybe even the Citadel? _No_. The galaxy didn't need anything from the Reapers. The best and brightest had already proved what they were capable of. Legion's words came back to her as clearly as if she possessed a drell's memory.

_We make our own future._

Erase all lines between organic and synthetic? It was a tempting thought, to remove that which divided. But it wasn't an answer. Diversity, individuality… Mordin knew. They were _important_. Differences matter. One different perspective can change the galaxy. Look at Wrex, Bakara, Mordin… even Maelon, in his twisted way, all seeing a different future for the krogan.

Legion. Tali. Zaal'Koris.

_Shepard._

Lose diversity, and you eliminate perspectives. _No_.

Shepard's lips twitched. She'd promised to send the Reapers to hell, and that was just what she was going to do. She raised her pistol in a trembling hand, the weight of the small weapon almost more than she could bear.

Inhaled, pushing away pain, pushing away thought.

Sighted. Her hand steadied, rock solid.

_Fired._

Red fire wrapped her and blossomed outward.

_Soon, Thane. I'll be there soon_


	2. Chapter 1

_A/N: You know when you're stuck someplace without a notebook or any way to take down what's going on in your head? _

_Yeah. That. _

_The end of the chapter was so much better in my head, two hours away from any way to write it down. _

_Reviews are always welcome, however._

* * *

**Chapter One**

Stars blazed in the summer night's sky.

"How do I let you talk me into these things, Hawke?"

"Because you love me, Varric," Hawke quipped, loosening her daggers in their sheaths. "Besides, I know you can't resist helping the poor and benighted citizens of Kirkwall…"

"You clearly have me confused with someone else. Choir Boy, for example."

"You're right. I should have brought Sebastian. Sebastian loves me. And he has such lovely blue eyes."

"Hawke, it's midnight in the docks. You can't see the color of anyone's eyes. Besides, _my _eyes are a much prettier blue."

Hawke sighed. "Humor me, Varric. You have no idea how boring my life has become in Hightown."

The dwarf chuckled. "That's what you get for becoming a lady, Hawke. Now you see why I prefer to remain one of the common people."

"Says the man wielding the might of House Tethras in the Merchant's Guild."

"Nah," Varric flipped a hand dismissively, "I leave that to my cousin, Archibald."

Hawke stopped. "I don't remember you having a cousin called Archibald."

"I don't."

Shadows moved in the darkness ahead, gathered like vultures around a corpse.

Varric unshipped Bianca from his back. "Grab something sharp and pointy, Hawke. We have company."

"I see them," Hawke answered, sliding her daggers free. With a practiced kick she sent a stoppered glass globe spinning into the shadows, launching herself after it with abandon.

It was not much of a fight, and what little there was of it was soon over. Hawke moved among the bodies of the fallen, searching for anything of interest. Not that she needed to rifle the pockets of the dead, not anymore, but some habits die hard. And maybe some are born in the bone.

"Hawke! Over here," called Varric.

There was urgency in the dwarf's voice. Curious, Hawke strode to his side.

Varric was kneeling by the battered and bloody body of a woman. "Maker! What did they do to her?"

Hawke dropped to one knee. "Andraste's tits…" she breathed. "Is she still alive?"

"Looking like that?"

With a shocking suddenness, the woman took a broken gasp of air.

**-ooo-**

This first thing Shepard was aware of was the stench.

Her eyes cracked open slowly. Various shades of mud swam giddily in her vision before resolving into a squared off earthen ceiling.

Confusion. _She'd been on the Citadel…_

"Am I on Earth?" she wondered aloud. Her voice was raspy, hoarse.

"No. You're on a cot," answered a pleasant male voice, with a hint of humor. "Although I admit, the earth may be cleaner."

Shepard's vision swam again as she turned her head. As she blinked and squinted, the wavering lines became the figure of a human sitting on a low stool maybe half a meter away. His features were handsome, but haggard, his cheeks and chin stubbled. She blinked again. There was something odd about the clothes he was wearing.

"I know it's cliche, but where the hell am I?" Shepard wrinkled her nose. "And why does it smell worse than Omega?"

The man smiled. He had a charming smile that almost erased the haunted look in his eyes. "Darktown, I'm afraid."

Shepard frowned. "I should be dead."

"You came very close."

She closed her eyes. _Why won't they just let me rest? Sorry, Thane. I wanted to be with you…_

Her eyes snapped back open. Wait…_ Darktown? _

She squinted again. Were those _feathers_?

_Careful, Shepard. Something's wrong here…_

"How… how did I get here?" That should be a safe enough question.

"Some friends of mine found you on the docks. You'd been very badly injured. They brought you here, to me."

"The… Darktown… docks?" The name sounded wrong on her tongue.

The man laughed. "Darktown doesn't have docks. It has holes that the sewage drains through."

"That explains the smell."

_Okay, Shepard. Think. You were in the middle of a god-knows-how-big explosion of dark energy that happened _inside_ what is essentially a giant mass relay. _

_**Fuck**__._

_You could be _anywhere_._

She took a measured breath. Suddenly, she wished she knew more… okay, anything… about dark energy and theoretical physics.

Humans. Speaking English, or a reasonable facsimile thereof. That narrowed things a bit, didn't it? And, hey, at least she hadn't ended up in Batarian space. That would have been fun.

"What colony is this?"

The man's brow furrowed. "Colony? This is Kirkwall, in the Free Marches," he sounded as confused as Shepard felt. "Wait… are you from Tevinter?"

_Kirkwall? Free Marches? Tevinter?_

"I don't… What world am I on?" Shepard demanded.

His blond brows arched. "Well, as far as I know, we're still in Thedas."

_Thedas… Thedas…_ Shepard couldn't place that name, either.

"What system?"

"System? What do you mean?"

Panic clutched at Shepard's gut. _No. This _can't_ be happening._

Shepard cast her eyes around the room, noting for the first time the lack of familiar sights. Lights. Computers. _Plastic…_

_No. Nonononono._

"I don't think we're in Kansas anymore, Toto…" she whispered.

"Kansas?" The man frowned. "I don't think I've heard that name before. Is that where you're from, originally?"

Shepard almost laughed. _No, LA. But I might as well be from Oz…_

"Let's just say that I'm from someplace a long, long way from here."

**-ooo-**

"Anders! How's my most favorite apostate today?" The voice was female, attractive, and amused.

The man scowled and stood up. "You know I hate it when you call me that, Hawke."

A laugh. "You know, that's probably why I keep doing it. And how's our friend?"

The man lowered his voice. "Awake. Confused. _Odd_. She called me Toto."

"Toto? That _is_ odd. But no odder than the Arishok asking for me by name."

"What?"

"It's just that sort of day, I suppose."

Unsurprisingly, the owner of the new voice did indeed appear to be female, attractive, and amused. She scooped up the recently vacated stool and settled herself on it at the edge of the cot.

"You know, it's not a terribly good idea to go wandering the docks at night. Especially when you've got the kind of enemies that can mash you into a bloody pulp," the woman said lightly. "And I should know."

Shepard tried to sit up and groaned as a wave of nausea broke over her. She eased back down.

"Look," she said to the ceiling, "I'm just going to get this over with. Have you ever heard the words, "Prothean", "mass effect", or (oh, please god) "electricity"?"

The woman put her head on one side. "No," she said thoughtfully, ticking them off on her fingers, "no, and yes."

The man came over with a mug of something that smelled like dirt and old socks. "Here," he said to Shepard. "Drink this. It will help with the nausea and vertigo."

He helped her into a sitting position. Making a face and hoping that it wouldn't come right back up, Shepard drained as much of the mug as she could in a single swig.

"Gently," the man admonished.

Shepard fought with the foul liquid and won. It stayed down.

"Technology," she panted. "Ever heard of it?" Some kind of terrible, dark, manic humor had seized her.

"N-n-n-no, I don't think so," the woman answered, and glanced up at the man. "Anders?"

At his minute head shake, she turned her attention back to Shepard. "Should I have?"

Shepard gave a hollow laugh. "Fire? The wheel? Particle accelerators?"

The woman eased the stool back a little. "Do you know what happened to you?" she asked carefully.

"No!"

"Well, as far as we can tell, somebody - probably a whole lot of somebodies, actually - attacked and nearly killed you on the docks two nights ago."

Shepard put her face in her hands and began massaging her temples for whatever small relief it could provide. "This is…" She stopped. She started again. "You're probably going to think I'm crazy, but here goes. The last thing I remember is being caught in a… in a giant… explosion of… of… energy. And then I woke up here."

_I wasn't supposed to wake up at all! And if I did, it was supposed to be on some beach 'across the sea' somewhere, with Thane. Or at least on the Normandy… Earth… somewhere _rational.

"That would account for the way you looked, certainly," said the woman, with far more calmness than Shepard herself was feeling. Once again, there was a glance up to the man. "Sound like anything you know, Anders?"

The man shrugged. "Could be anything, I suppose. Although for something that powerful…" he trailed off.

"Blood magic?"

The man grimaced. "Probably, yes." He squinted at Shepard. "Are you sure you're not from Tevinter?"

"Pretty sure, yes."

"Where _are_ you from?"

Shepard groaned and dropped her head back in her hands.

"You said Kansas, right?" That was the man again.

"Kansas?" said the woman. "I've never heard of it. Is it one of the Qunari lands?"

Shepard's response was muffled. "I don't know, but probably not."

"Not big on geography?"

"Oh, I don't know, give me a star chart, some astrometrics, and about fifty years and maybe I could figure it out." Shepard raised her head and gave them a look that anyone on the Normandy world have recognized. It was the look she got shortly before something exploded. "Listen. I honestly have no idea where I am, or how I managed to get here. All I know is that here is a long, long, _long_ way from where I belong."

"And the Maker dropped you in Kirkwall," the woman's mouth stretched in a feral grin. "See, Anders? The Maker _does_ have a sense of humor."

"And he's a bastard."

"Right.

* * *

_A/N: I reserve the right to insist the _The Wizard of Oz_ is still a perennial favorite in the 2180's._


	3. Chapter 2

_A/N: Short chapter. The next two weeks I probably won't have much time for writing, so I thought I'd get what I could done and posted.  
_

_Big thanks to those who left reviews. I appreciate the comments. Hopefully, the story itself will soon answer any questions.  
_

* * *

**Chapter Two_  
_**

_If there is a god, I bet he's Batarian…_

Shepard stared at the chunk of soap in her hand. And it was a _chunk_ of _soap_, not a bar, and definitely not the fruity-smelling gel she was accustomed to using.

She'd just laughed when she'd seen the… toilet… arrangements.

Commander Shepard; first human Spectre, savior of the Citadel, destroyer of an insanely powerful race of synthetics bent on the destruction of advanced organic civilization throughout the galaxy… sitting on a plank and pissing into a bucket.

This was not the way it was supposed to go. The hero either survives, gets absolutely plastered with her goddamn squad, and spends the rest of her life dodging the media, or dies in a blaze of glory and flying body parts. There is no third option. And certainly not one involving _buckets_.

In those last few moments of consciousness, Shepard hadn't seen her past flash before her eyes, she'd seen her future. _That_ was her one regret - that she'd never get to see Tali's house on Rannoch, or Wrex and Bakara's first child, or find out how Joker and EDI's peculiar romance worked out. She'd created a future, but not one she'd live to see.

Shepard had never been a religious woman. She'd seen too many things growing up on the streets to believe that anyone was in charge of this bullshit. But the one thing she'd clung to, that she couldn't give up, was Thane's belief that one day they'd be together again. She may not understand it, but she'd sure as hell believe in it. And her one regret hadn't been enough to keep her from embracing the darkness in the hope that she'd find the sea.

But there was no future, and there was no sea.

There were buckets.

Methodically, Shepard scrubbed herself down. The bath was little more than another bucket, albeit one she could sit in, should she choose to. She did not. She knelt, and used the chuck of soap and a rough cloth to try and wash this reality away.

The young woman's name was Hawke; the man, Anders. Hawke had left Shepard some clothes to wear - the ones she'd arrived in were no more than tattered rags, and the sort of rough smock she'd been wearing when she awoke hardly covered her bare ass. Shepard was still more than a little amazed at the way both Hawke and Anders took her story at face value and with a kind of equanimity that puzzled her. It hinted that, well… that stranger things than Shepard had happened and would probably go right on happening.

She was still piecing things together, like assembling a jigsaw puzzle without the benefit of a picture. And possibly with bits of another jigsaw puzzle thrown in for good measure.

One piece that nagged at her was this: If her injuries were as severe as she suspected, how had she survived without medical care? Tea tasting of dirty feet (which, she had to admit, did relieve the nausea and vertigo) was no substitute for medigel. And one scruffy-looking man wearing the contents of a xenophilic salarian transvestite's refuse bin was no substitute for a skilled medical professional like Dr Chakwas.

How the hell was she alive? No, how the hell was she alive and _uninjured_? There weren't even any new _scars_, for fuck's sake.

It wasn't technology, Shepard was sure of that. These people seemed to be part of a pre-industrial society. The first computer wasn't even a glimmer of a glimmer of a fevered imagining. Hell, while they apparently knew about electricity, it seemed the extent of that knowledge was, "something that hurts when it zaps you".

_Maybe this is hell_… Shepard thought glumly. _The _special_ kind reserved for someone who kills entire systems._

The trouble was, Shepard _was_ the type of person who kills entire systems. _When necessary._

And the thing about the type of person who kills entire systems… _when necessary_… is that there is only so much wallowing in regret and self-pity that someone like that can do before they look up with a fire in their eye and say, "Bring it on."

She may not have gotten a future or a death, but by god she'd gotten something. And damned if she wasn't going to make what she could out of it.

She was Commander-_fucking_-Shepard, and this world better watch the fuck out.

* * *

_A/N: For those of you wondering..._

_For _xenophilic salarian transvestite_, read "Elton John"._

_Everyone else... enjoy your imaginations. :p_


	4. Chapter 3

_A/N: Really pushed to try to get an update done before the next two weeks of crazy academia. So... this is really a half-chapter, but hopefully you'll forgive that._

_Thanks for the new reviews. Yes, I do plan to continue with the story, at least through the end of Act 2. Provided my brain doesn't overheat and explode before then..._

_Since there is straight-up game dialog within, a reminder that Bioware owns. Not me. I just borrow the shiny.  
_

* * *

**Chapter Three**

"Oooh, is she pretty?" Merrill asked. "I bet she's pretty…"

Hawke considered. "After the blood and gore got washed off," she conceeded. "Why?"

They were headed to the qunari compound in the docks. Normally, Hawke would have had Varric accompany her along with Fenris - after the whole Ketojan debacle, she was wary of bringing a mage into the compound - but she wanted to know if Marethari's former First had any insight into how the woman (who'd given her name simply as _Shepard_) might have ended up in Kirkwall's fetid dockside.

"Because in the stories Varric tells me, it's always beautiful princesses who are rescued by the hero." Merrill paused for a moment. "Although, come to think of it, usually the hero is a boy."

Hawke smiled. Not even Sebastian could take offense at Varric's storytelling when it came to the Dalish mage. Hawke wasn't sure if the dwarf's self-editing was due to a desire to shelter Merrill, or simply in self-defense; she recalled an incident in which Merrill had inadvertently gotten hold of some of Isabella's friend fiction - Maker, the _questions_! And how to answer when Merrill was looking at you with the innocently puzzled expression of a mildly concussed kitten.

"Do you know of any Dalish magic that might do that? An explosion that moves people great distances?"

Merrill's face fell. "No. Perhaps during the days of Elvhenan. But, if so, it has long been lost to my people."

They climbed the steps to the compound. One of the imposing giants guarded the gate. He made a low rumble when Hawke caught his eye.

"All are forbidden. Except you," he said. "For now."

As usual, Hawke felt almost as if she were in braids again as she walked through the orderly compound. She was not a tiny thing by any means, but she barely came up to the middle of most of the massive kossith chests around her.

"Serah Hawke," said the Arishok, as she approached.

"Yes?" she replied, a trifle warily.

"Last we met I did not know your name; did not care to. You have changed your fortune over the years. The qunari have not."

It was an odd greeting. But then, the Arishok was an odd person.

"I offer a courtesy, Hawke. Someone has stolen what he thinks is the formula for gaatlok. You will want to hunt him."

"Excuse me," said Hawke doubtfully, "but this sounds like quite the feat."

"It was allowed." The Arishok's voice was flat. "The stolen formula was a decoy - saar-qamek, a poison gas. Not explosives."

The Arishok shifted slightly on his heavy, ornate bench. "A small amount is dangerous enough to your kind, but if made in quantity - perhaps by someone intending to sell it…"

_Oh Maker… _"That merchant… Jevaris," Hawke growled.

"Would he be cautious, or would he assume success and make enough to threaten a district? A courtesy, Hawke. You will want to hunt him."

Hawke found herself agreeing with the giant when he explained the effects of the gas. Only the qunari, she thought, with their cold, brutal logic, could come up with such a thing. She could feel the weight of the Arishok's eyes upon her.

"I barely spoke to you three years ago," she said curiously. "Why give me this warning?"

"You are capable," he answered. "But I have yet to decide if you are capable of understanding. Save your streets from this fool dwarf. Then we will talk."

How very typical. The Arishok never gave straight answers. Still, she supposed she ought to be grateful that he thought enough of her - however slight it might be - to give her this warning.

"I appreciate you bringing this to me." She inclined her head diplomatically.

"I have long thought that this city would destroy itself. This would only hasten the inevitable." As always, the Arishok's voice was coolly dispassionate. "Panehedan, Hawke. It will be interesting to see if you die."

**-ooo-**

Shepard missed her armor.

Normally, she couldn't wait to get out of her damned armor after a mission. Unless in the middle of a firefight, she really preferred fatigues. But as she fastened a belt around the borrowed tunic, all Shepard could think about was the cool smoothness of her old N7 chestplate, and how _nice_ it would feel to put it on. And gauntlets, and greaves… shoulder guards…

She sighed, and stepped out from behind the wooden screen.

Anders was tending to a young child - a little girl, human, maybe seven or eight. A worried-looking woman hovered over the pair - likely the child's mother. Anders gave the woman a weary smile.

"She'll be fine. She should rest for another day, maybe two, but the fever has left her."

The woman sagged in relief. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears as she captured one of Anders hands between her own and thanked him in a voice that cracked with emotion. Then she took her daughter in her arms and lifted her onto one hip as if the gangly child were still a toddler.

When the woman and child were gone, Anders collapsed gratefully onto the corner of one of his cots.

"Maker," he groaned. "But I am _tired_."

Shepard studied him for a moment. "Are you the only doctor in Kirkwall?"

"Doctor?" Anders tilted his head. "I'm not familiar with the term."

Shepard waved a hand, indicating the woman and child that had just exited. "Taking care of people? Healing them?"

Anders' lips set thinly. "For these people, yes. I'm all they have. Most are refugees, with little to no coin to spend beyond a loaf or bowl of porridge."

Tugging a little at the unfamiliar clothes, Shepard settled herself on the edge of another cot. "How do you manage it?"

The man leaned forward to rest his arms on his thighs. "Some days I wonder myself," he sighed.

"Your dedication is worthy," Shepard agreed gently, "But I was actually asking literally." She mirrored his position, fixing her green eyes on his face. "How did I survive, Anders? I've been…" _- dead -_ "…critically injured more times than I'd like to admit. I know what it feels like."

Anders met her scrutiny openly. "I noticed the scars," he admitted.

Shepard sat up abruptly. "Then tell me why I don't have any new ones. This place is a… a… _hovel_. No equipment, the sanitary conditions of, well, of a former sewer… How did you heal me?"

Anders' eyes dropped and he looked away. "I'm an apostate," he said quietly.

Shepard's dark brows furrowed. "A what?"

Surprised, Anders' eyes snapped back to hers. "You don't have apostates where you come from?"

_It's like trying to converse in a foreign language that happens to be your own_, Shepard thought with frustration.

She shook her head. "I have no idea." With a sharp inhale, she tipped her head back to stare at the ceiling. "The word exists where I come from, but I don't know if it has the same meaning."

"Apostate," repeated Anders slowly. "A mage acting outside the Circle. Are you _sure_ you're not from Tevinter?"

Shepard wanted to bang her head against something. Like a wall. Or a krogan.

She uttered a sharp bark of laughter. "I know all those words, but I have no idea what you're talking about. And I've never even heard of Tevinter."

Anders blinked. "You don't have a Circle of Magi where you come from?"

"Not to the best of my knowledge."

"What do you do with your mages, then? Are they free?" There was an undercurrent of excitement in Anders' voice.

"Only magi I've ever heard of are the ones in the Christian Bible. But I suppose they were free." Shepard shrugged. "I never read it."

Now the man looked dumbfounded. "There are no mages where you come from? No magic? What about lyrium?"

_Didn't somebody once say that advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic, or something to that effect?_

"We have technology. That's… I guess it's like magic. Just extremely reliable, scientifically based magic." Shepad squirmed a little at the definition. "Sort of."

Anders frowned. "I don't understand."

Shepard snorted. "That makes two of us."

**-ooo-**

Hawke blinked, trying to get her eyes to adjust to the dim, smoky interior of the Hanged Man after the bright afternoon sunlight. Isabella was at her usual place at the bar. Three men sitting at a nearby table were openly ogling the dusky rogue. Hawke grinned a greeting at her, giving a tiny head tilt to indicate the oglers.

Isabella gave her a lazy smile and rolled her kohled eyes in response.

Chuckling, Hawke threaded her way through the tavern to the stairway. For someone with such bountiful opportunities, Isabella sure spent a lot of coin at the Rose. Hawke supposed there was something to be said for skilled labor.

Varric was where she fully expected to find him, lounging in a chair in his suite, lazily polishing… Hawke firmly stuck to the thought of _polishing_, not _fondling_… Bianca's stock.

"Hawke," he said with a smile. "So, what did our garrulous friend want with you?"

"I wouldn't call the Arishok garrulous, actually," rambled Merrill from somewhere behind Hawke. "I don't think he likes to speak very much. He has such a deep voice. It's really quite scary. Do you think his voice frightens him sometimes?"

Varric chuckled. "If his reflection doesn't frighten him, Daisy, I doubt his voice could."

Merrill's leaf-green eyes widened. "Elgar'non! I hadn't thought of that. Do you ever think he startles himself when he walks past a mirror?"

Hawke met Varric's eyes. For a moment, she could swear that they were sharing the same mental picture. Then Varric shook his head, and Hawke dropped herself into a chair opposite him, helping herself to his mug of ale.

She took a long draught and, in a few brief sentences, related the conversation with the Arishok.

"Jevaris? I haven't been keeping tabs on the little squirt," Varric replied to her final question. "We should head to Darktown, check with the Coterie."

"I should probably check in with Anders again, and see how his houseguest is faring."

Varric folded his arms on his chest. "Have you ever thought about switching to collecting, oh, I don't know… stray kittens, or butterflies maybe… instead of people with dark secrets and dangerous pasts?"

Hawke gave him a wide-eyed smile. "Now, where would be the fun in that?"

"I can tell you where it wouldn't be," quipped the dwarf lightly. "Caves full of things looking to kill us, or eat us. Or kill us _and_ eat us. Sewers. Crumbling old ruins filled with demons and abominations. Fancy Chateaux full of simpering Orlesians…"

"Deep Roads filled with darkspawn and rock wraiths…" Hawke added breezily.

"My brother tries to kill us once, and you want to hold that against me?"

Her eyes sparkled. "Yes," she teased. "Since you won't let me hold anything else against you."

Varric's eyes grew sly. "What can I say? Bianca would never share."

Hawke rolled tragic eyes to the sky. "Maker! I'm surrounded by gorgeous men who refuse to have sex with me! How is that fair?"

"We're having a contest," Varric got to his feet, slinging his crossbow on his back.

"A contest?" Merrill demanded. "Why don't I ever find out about these things?"

Varric patted her cheek gently. "You're not a boy, Daisy. This game is only for the boys."

Merrill smiled widely, good humor restored. "Oh. That makes sense, then."

Fenris' deep, smooth voice rolled over the three of them. "Only because Isabella plays to lose."

**-ooo-**

Anders led her to a small chest on the far side of the wooden screen that separated what appeared to be his sleeping area from the rest of the… clinic, Shepard guessed she could call it.

"The clothing you were wearing was past salvaging," he said, lifting the lid. "But there were a few things the bandits down on the docks hadn't managed to make off with."

Shepard looked down into the wooden box and her heart constricted almost painfully. Her omni-tool. And beneath it…

With reverent hands, Shepard reached down and lifted out her Mantis. Like a mother, she cradled the gun in her arms, shifting the weapon from its compact holstered mode to firing mode. Like a lover, she ran her fingers over the familiar scars on the stock, the one small nick in the barrel near the muzzle that Vakarian was forever nagging at her to get repaired. She inhaled the scent of gun oil and titanium alloy eagerly; a smell she'd practically worn the way other women wore perfume since the day she'd left basic.

Anders eyed her a little warily. "You're going to tell me it has a name, aren't you?" he stated flatly.

Shepard blinked and looked up at the healer. "What?"

Anders gestured with his chin. "That. It's a weapon of some sort, isn't it? You're going to tell me it's name is Emmott, or Connor, or something, aren't you?"

"Of course not," Shepard replied indignantly. "A beautiful and deadly thing like this? _Emmott_…" she snorted. Shepard's lips curved in a suddenly mischievous grin, lighting up her face.

"His name is Garrus."

* * *

_A/N: See? Shepard hints. I told you I wouldn't leave you hanging._

_Also, plot contrivance. Sue me.  
_

_Unless you're EA or Bioware. Then please don't.  
_


	5. Chapter 4

_A/N: By sheer effort of will, and by ignoring all the things I was supposed to get done today, I managed an update two days earlier than planned. Not long, but, well... **guilt**. While I certainly appreciate all the wonderful reviews... Jesus' jockstrap, the** guilt**!_

_So. If this chapter is too bloody short by half, you only have yourselves to blame._

* * *

**Chapter Four**

"Are you sure you want to bring Blondie along, Hawke? He and the elf will be wrangling within five minutes, you know."

Hawke gave the dwarf a look. "Fenris hates _all_ mages, Varric, not just Anders. I remember Smuggler's Cut from my time working for Athenril. We're going to want healing magic. And Anders is _by far_ the better healer. Merrill does her best, but you remember what happened last time we needed her to do major healing, don't you?"

Varric sighed. He remembered. _Maker_, did he remember. "All right, Hawke. We'll do it your way. I'll just… stick my fingers in my ears, or something."

"I could go get Sebastian, if you're going to be delicate about it," Hawke offered, an evil glint in her eye.

"And leave you to face Smuggler's Cut alone after the three of them play Templars and Abominations?" Hawke's trusty dwarf gave her an incredulous look, largely feigned. "Never."

"Oh, you're just afraid I might find I prefer tall, dashing archers in shining armor over short, witty archers in distressed leather. Admit it," she teased.

Varric's scoffed. "Choir Boy? That longbow of his is lovely, but she's no match for Bianca. Besides, you'd throttle him after the sixth repetition of the Chant in its entirety."

Hawke appeared to consider this. "The third," she corrected. "Sexy as his voice is, there is only so much piousness a girl can take."

"You wound me, Hawke." Varric stopped, and raised a stricken hand to his heart. "The last thing any storyteller wants to hear is that another man has a sexier voice."

Hawke turned to him. "Varric, you've as much as admitted to me that you find Fenris' voice unbearably sexy."

"That's completely out of context, Hawke," he complained. "I believe I said that if _I_ had Broody's voice, _I_ would be unbearably sexy."

"I'm... flattered?" the elf murmured.

**-ooo-**

Shepard carefully counted one more time, knowing the result would be the same.

_Ten._

Ten shots. The last ten shots of her _life_, unless she found some way to get home. Somehow, she doubted that any of the local shops - if there even were such things - would carry thermal clips. And even if she could figure out how to make them herself, who knew if this world contained the raw materials Shepard's omni-tool could use to create them?

_Why did we ever switch to disposable heat sinks, anyway? Damn the geth and their battlefield analysis!_ If Legion were here, she'd cheerfully punch him in the flashlight.

So. Ten shots. Then again, it didn't sound as if Shepard needed to worry about Reapers or heretical geth, so maybe those ten shots were more than she would ever need in this god-forsaken shithole.

_Yeah, right. Not fucking likely._ When you were Commander Shepard, designated ass-saver for the whole fucking galaxy, fate tended to pile on the bad guys.

Maybe she could figure out a way to mod the rifle back to old school, circa 2183. A maddeningly slow rate of fire was still better than none at all.

Thank god she'd let Tali talk her into upgrading her Savant's power cell. At least that was one thing she wouldn't need to worry about. Shepard remembered the conversation outside the Presidium kiosk.

"_Trust me, Shepard," the quarian had assured her. "You'll never need to replace this power cell." _

"_I've never _had_ to replace a power cell," she'd groused. _

"_That's because you're always buying new 'tools. You're the most fickle user I've ever met," Tali had retorted._

_Shepard had clutched her left forearm to her chest protectively. "That was before I found the Savant."_

"_So upgrade it. This power cell will outlive us both."_

_Shepard had snorted. "That doesn't mean anything. We could both die tomorrow. For that price, it damn well better outlive a Reaper."_

_Tali had given her a _**look**_. _

_Shepard had bought the upgrade._

It was funny, Shepard thought now, how easily she'd come to recognize the expressions on a face she'd never seen clearly. She wished she knew where Tali was at this moment, and how her friend - how _all_ her friends - were doing. Were they even alive?

_Stop it, Shepard. You're here now, wherever the fuck _here_ is, and wondering about home - _about the Normandy_ - is only going to make you batshit crazy within a week._

She fastened the omni-tool in place and briskly keyed up the diagnostics screen, setting the 'tool to run a full scan and verify it was functioning properly. The time to find out that the explosion of dark energy had fried some little-used circuit was not somewhere down the road when she absolutely needed the thing to work.

"What in the Maker's name is that?" Anders gasped, as the warm orangey glow of the holographic display flashed to life. He held one hand out, palm forward, as if trying to gauge the heat of a fire. "It's not magic."

"No," Shepard agreed. "Not magic. No magic where I come from, remember?"

The healer frowned. "That… _That's_ teknoggy… tecknoleggy…" he asked, stumbling over the unfamiliar word.

"Technology," Shepard supplied. "Yes."

Anders reached forward to touch the glowing outline, yanking his hand back when his fingers passed through the hologram and landed on Shepard's forearm. "It's an illusion? But you… you _touched_ it?"

Shepard felt a brief flicker of unkind satisfaction at the healer's discomfiture. He and Hawke had seemed so blithely unconcerned about Shepard's arrival and presence that the Spectre found herself rather smugly pleased by Anders' reaction.

"I did." Although there was no reason to - the diagnostic scan was not yet complete - Shepard tapped through the preliminary results.

Anders' brow furrowed. "How?"

Shepard shrugged. "How did you heal me?"

"I told you. I have healing magics."

The Spectre's mouth quirked. "And I have haptics."

**-ooo-**

"Anders!" exclaimed Hawke as she strode into the clinic, followed in a hauntingly familiar way by two other figures. "And serah Shepard! It's nice to see you up and about."

The healer folded his arms across his chest. "I take it that the Arishok wasn't requesting your presence because he wanted the recipe for Ferelden pecan cookies, was he?"

Hawke gave him a wolfish grin. "What gave it away?"

Anders dropped his arms. "The elf. Nobody would choose to spend time with him for his charming disposition."

"I suppose you think that Hawke would prefer the company of an abomination?" retorted one of Hawke's companions, a lanky man about Shepard's height, with a shock of white hair that fell forward into his face.

_No. Not companions. Squadmates. They follow her. She's their leader; they're her squad_.

"What did I tell you, Hawke?" muttered the other squadmate, a short, squat man that might only just come up to the middle of Shepard's chest. Like Anders, he wore his blond hair pulled back and had a lightly stubbled chin. "Not even five minutes."

Hawke rolled her eyes good-naturedly. "I need your help, Anders," she said.

"Of course," the healer replied. "As you can see, I have no patients at the moment. Let me just grab my staff."

"I hope you don't mind me stealing your host," Hawke told Shepard. "You should be safe here, in the clinic."

Shepard set her jaw firmly. "I'm coming with you."

"What?" said Hawke.

"What?" said Anders.

"What?" chorused Hawke's two squadmates.

"I don't know anything about this place," Shepard pointed out. "I need to learn."

Hawke's eyes narrowed. "What we're doing will be dangerous," she said, flatly.

"Good," answered Shepard, meeting Hawke's narrowed gaze and raising her a further, flinty squint. "I haven't killed anything for days."

"That comment sounded shockingly familiar, didn't it?" murmured the short one.

"Almost disturbingly so," agreed the lanky one.

"Oh, _Maker_…" sighed Anders.

Hawke gave Shepard an appraising look. "You don't have armor, or weapons," she pointed out.

"Actually, Hawke…" began Anders, but Shepard was already moving, her left fist describing a backhanded arc, a tell-tale orange glow leaving a faint trail in the air. Beside her, the leg of a heavy wooden table fell over with a dull thud, sliced cleanly in two.

Hawke's eyes widened in surprise. "Andraste's flaming ass! What was that?"

"Welcome to technology," said Anders wryly.

* * *

_A/N: Something I forgot to mention in my haste to get everything posted before my two week hiatus:_

_The comment about technology and magic from last chapter comes from Arthur C. Clarke: "Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic."_

_One of my favorite nerdy quotes. Credit where it's due.  
_

_P.S. Again. The reviews? Totally awesome. I am stupidly happy that people are enjoying the story.  
_


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

"There are a _lot_ of unfriendly people down here," Hawke cautioned Shepard as they strode along the passage. "When they attack us, and they _will_ attack us - lyrium smuggling is not for the wishy-washy - drop back behind Varric, with Anders."

Shepard bit back a sharp retort, and finished fine-tuning the kinetic barriers on her omni-tool. The younger woman wasn't trying to be patronizing - Hawke was simply looking out for the Spectre, an unknown and untested member of her squad.

But it was _hard_. So hard.

She was _Commander_ Shepard.

For the last five years, she'd been a commander. For the majority of that time - over three years - she'd had one of the loosest chains of command of any soldier alive, and perhaps the greatest responsibility. Even while sitting in her Alliance cell, officially _relieved of command_, she'd still been a commander. It was part of who she was. By now, perhaps, it was all of it.

Her legs itched to overtake Hawke, to resume point. No matter that she had no idea where she was going, why she was going, or what she was supposed to do when they got there - and next time, she would insist on a mission briefing ahead of time - Shepard knew where she belonged.

To distract herself, she thought about the two squadmates she'd just met. Varric was the short, stocky one; the lanky one was called Fenris. Races here on Thedas were apparently not divided along color lines but along size and body type, and were categorized by fairy-tale names; dwarf for the short, stocky subterranean people, elf for the medium-sized, gracile forest and plains dwellers. Those designated as "humans" were the intermediary type; taller in general than either of the other races, more robust than the elves yet not as stocky as the dwarves, and living pretty much wherever they chose. From a few chance remarks, Shepard gathered that there was yet another race as well - one of imposing physical size - although from the sound of it, members of this race might well be another species entirely.

As far as Varric and Fenris went, Shepard had been surprised to realize that the burly dwarf was the ranged specialist while the lithe, tattooed elf was the shock trooper. In fact, Fenris carried what appeared to Shepard's untrained eye to be a pointy steel girder strapped to his back. She supposed it must be what would have been called a bastard sword back on Earth, but that she thought looked more like a _god-damn-motherfucking-son-of-a-bitch_ sword. The thing was taller, and probably heavier, than its wielder.

With a start, Shepard realized she'd begun edging ahead of Hawke again. The latter didn't appear to have noticed, or perhaps she simply did not care. Shepard set her teeth and deliberately dropped back to walk at Anders' side before she barged out in front and potentially into a rank confrontation she suspected she wouldn't handle very well.

It was as well she did.

"Hawke!" Varric's voice was urgent, and he halted suddenly.

"I see it, Varric," Hawke replied, edging forward carefully and sinking to her haunches. Deftly, she brushed feather-light fingers over a patch of lightly disturbed sand, revealing the edge of a pressure plate.

_**Shit**__. Mines. You would have blown us all to hell like some stupid FNG, Shepard!_

Hawke moved briskly and confidently along the trail, gloved hands working dexterously. In the space of a minute, she stood back up, dusting her hands on her backside.

"That's the lot. Say what you like about the Carta, their trap-setters are nasty-minded little bastards."

"I'd say that's an accurate description all around," Varric commented dryly.

"Of dwarves in general, or the Carta specifically?" Anders grinned.

"Funny, Blondie. Funny."

There was a sudden rush of air and a wisp of smoke, and Hawke barely turned in time to deflect a pair of daggers aimed at her spine. Enemies boiled out of nowhere, armed with daggers and axes and one gigantic sledgehammer. Varric and Anders dropped back slightly, Anders reaching for the ornately worked staff carried on his back, and Varric for a large crossbow on his. Despite its massive size, Fenris had already drawn his weapon and was swinging it in a wide, devastating arc. Hawke proved to be something of an advanced martial artist, employing fast, nimble acrobatics while wielding her long, matched daggers.

The weapons may have been different, but combat was combat. Shepard charged the nearest hostile, omni-blade at the ready. She heard Hawke's shout of warning as she cut her opponent down, and her shields flickered blue as they deflected an oncoming projectile.

"Where can I get one of those?" shouted Varric, raising the crossbow to sight along its stock.

Shepard cut down another enemy and scanned for the ranged attackers. Two of them, on her one, standing only four meters apart. _Nice_. She sent an incendiary blast their way, mouth stretching grimly at their howls of pain.

"Magic!" Fenris growled, glaring over his shoulder at her. To Shepard's surprise, the silvery-blue tattoos on his arms, neck, and hands were glowing brightly.

Distracted by the light show, Shepard only belatedly realized that a big man armed with the mother of all sledgehammers had began a swing that looked like oncoming continental drift, aimed right for Shepard's chest.

_Aw, shit. Too slow for shields. I'm gonna get __**creamed**__._

**-ooo-**

"_Not all opponents will be mindless husks, siha."_

_Thane's voice was cool as they faced each other in the makeshift sparring ring. "You must learn to _think_ in close combat, not simply _react_."_

_This was the third sparring session. The previous two, from Shepard's perspective, had simply been a way for Thane to smack her across the back of the head with impunity._

_Shepard considered herself well above-average in close combat fighting. Surviving her years on the streets with the Reds had left her with an impressive knowledge of how to hurt people with her hands. And feet. And knees... elbows… **forehead**… As a kid, she'd thought that going three rounds bare-knuckles with a guy a foot taller and twice as heavy was _soft_. It meant there were _rules_._

_But Thane made her feel like an amateur._

The bastard_._

"_You charge in, relying on your armor to take the brunt of damage when you fail to parry correctly," Thane continued, moving - _flowing_ - around her, just out of range. No warning, not a twitch of a muscle or flicker of an eyelid, and his heel was flying for her temple. Shepard barely ducked and smacked it away in time, growling as she straightened._

"_Should I wait for an engraved invitation, Sere Krios?"_

"_You do not often _wait _for anything, siha." Those perfect lips quirked slightly. This time, she anticipated his strike as it came, catching it and spinning to slam an elbow into his solar plexus._

Theoretically_, anyway._

_Shepard didn't know which drove her more wild; the assassin's control, or the fact he was practically a damned ghost - unseen, unheard, and about as easy to hit as morning mist. Shepard was good, but he was better._

The evil bastard.

_He captured her arm easily, locking it behind her back and drawing her to his chest._

_His warm breath caressed her neck, setting a slow fire to burn in her gut. "Look for your enemy's weakness…"_

_She threw her head, hoping to catch his jaw with her skull, but the drell released her arm and shoved her away with a barely audible chuckle._

_Three more strikes, ineffectively countered, and she was against the wall, Thane's forearm across her throat, his mouth once again at her ear. "Use it…"_

_The graze of his lower lip against her skin. "Capitalize on it..."_

The evil, **sexy** bastard.

_Shepard caught the traitorous little moan before it escaped, but she needn't have bothered. Thane could read her like a book. Probably a book with very short words and large letters, at that._

_He increased the pressure of his body against hers, the weight of his forearm making her vision blur darkly at the edges, and then released her and returned to their starting position, the picture of perfect, exquisite, _infuriating_ composure._

_God, she loved that drell._

**-ooo-**

_Look for your enemy's weakness…_

It was probably a twenty kilo lump of metal, on the end of a meter-long handle, and wielded two-handed. Once in motion, nothing was going to stop that sonuvabitch, or change its flight path.

Except maybe her chest.

_Sir Isaac is your friend here, Shepard_.

She dropped like she was back at N-school with a DI bellowing in her ear, feeling the sluggish wake ruffle her hair as the hammer passed just overhead. The moment it swung clear, Shepard was moving, her right hand on the big man's right elbow, her left describing an uppercut with her omni-blade, sinking the weapon deep into the man's diaphragm.

It had been a long time since she'd looked a man in the eye when she killed him. Oh, she'd looked through a scope, or gazed into a helmet, and she'd even stared into the deep red light of hell as it flickered and died in a Reaper's shattered corpse. Shit, she'd blown people's heads off at point blank range. But holding contact while the eyes slowly glazed over and dimmed… no. Being a soldier had… insulated… her from this, to the point where she'd almost forgotten.

There was an odd, fierce… intensity to it. She liked it.

_Look, Shepard… Wrex may have called you an honorary krogan, but there's no need to go proving him _right_, dammit_.

She pulled the blade free and scanned for the next target.

There weren't any. Hawke's squad had eliminated the threat down to the last man.

"Anybody need healing?" Anders asked, securing his staff across his back again.

Before anyone could answer, Fenris whirled on Shepard, his face contorted by anger. "You. You're a mage."

Shepard remembered the light show just before she nearly experienced life as a pancake. "I doubt it. You're a biotic?"

"A what?" The elf's words were practically a sneer.

"The… energy. The… glow," Shepard gestured with one hand, indicating his upper body. "You're a biotic?"

"What I am is no business of yours, mage," he spat, turning on his heel and stalking away, his gait stiff as an angry dog's.

_Wow, commander…_ It was Joker's voice in her head, as clear as if she was standing behind him on the bridge of the Normandy. _Way to make friends and influence people! Ever think of going into politics?_

Hawke gave her an apologetic smile. "Fenris can be a bit… testy… when it comes to mages."

"Hawke explained, unnecessarily," Varric murmured as an aside. "Hey, Shepard, how come arrows bounce away like happy little bunnies when they get about six inches away from you?"

Shepard pursed her lips thoughtfully. "Do you know what a kinetic barrier is?"

"No, can't say that I do."

She nodded. "It's one of those."

* * *

_A/N: I must really like you people. I keep telling myself that *this time* I'll write a proper chapter, and halfway through I fail my will save and end up posting anyway._

_Yep, I'm a tool.  
_


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Hawke hadn't been joking when she'd said there were a lot of unfriendly people in the caves under Darktown. Well, actually, she _had_ been joking, but not in the hyperbolic sense. More the reverse, in fact. They'd run into several packs of the primitive screwheads; only loosely organized, but vicious and usually close to a dozen strong. Shepard was no stranger to being constantly outnumbered, but that had been when she'd been heavily armed _and_ had more than just hastily modded, low-power shields between her and possible dismemberment.

_I'd give a disgustingly mineral-rich planet for a pistol right now. And the system of anyone's choice for an assault rifle._

Still, there was an excitement to fighting like this, especially when you didn't have to worry about enemy snipers or heavies. She wondered if this was why Thane had always employed close combat tactics when most other assassins preferred long range sniping.

By the third skirmish, Shepard had hit a rhythm. She'd cloak and flank the enemy, locate any ranged attackers, select a melee target, attack from behind with her omni-blade, and then hit the damned archers with a heavy incineration blast. Then she'd cloak again, re-assess the battlefield, and select new targets.

It was a fighting style well suited to Hawke's way of doing things. _She_ liked to confuse the enemy with smoke and choking gas, and to employ lightning-fast strikes before springing out of range of a counter-attack. Varric was always on Hawke's six, ready to pick off an attacker with a crossbow bolt or to cover her escape with a smoke grenade. Fenris stalked the field like death in black leather, haloed by silver-blue light and sweeping his massive sword around like it was a low-budget vid prop made from aluminum and foam.

But it was Anders that Shepard found herself watching the most. He seemed to use his staff much the same way she used her omni-tool, pausing every once in a while with an arm outstretched over his head, hand outlined by a deep blue corona of energy. Shepard couldn't figure it out. There was no way in hell a piece of wood was capable of firing a cryo burst or a neural shock, and certainly not a shockwave, but in Anders' hands it certainly seemed to.

It was kind of creeping her out.

Ever since Fenris had lit up like the Normandy's drive core, Shepard had begun to think that she could see an explanation for all this "magic" business; biotics. The first time she'd seen somebody throw a person across a room with mindpower alone had been awe-inspiring. And the first time she'd taken a biotic to bed, gasping in pleasure with each tiny discharge of energy… well, that had indeed been _magical_.

But where the fuck did a… _stick_… fit into this equation?

**-ooo-**

"You?" exclaimed the cowering dwarf, incredulously. "Granny's garters, she would hire _you_. I can't buy a break on discount!" He paused, equal parts frustration and hopelessness in his eyes. "You know what? Go ahead. Take my head and pike it back to that sodding elf! I need the rest."

Hawke's brow crinkled. "What in blazes are you talking about?"

Jevaris' mouth sagged open. "You don't know? What, are you tracking for the qunari?" He shut his mouth with a snap, his eyes suddenly furious. "Then she did it," he growled. "That elf got them after me for nothing. Bitchborn!"

Anders quirked an eyebrow. "The obvious thief was perhaps a bit _too_ obvious."

The angry dwarf forced words past his clenched teeth. "Look, I'm minding buisiness, same ol'. Then out of the blue some elf tries to kill me. Says she's got the qunari powder and I'm her cover. I slipped her, hired some bodyguards, and ran for it. And now you're here." His mouth twisted grimly. "_Great_."

Shepard sidled closer to the healer. "What the hell is going on? Who is this guy?" she hissed. "And what's qunari powder? Some kind of drug?"

Anders waved a hand down at his side. "Not now," he hissed back, as Hawke pushed the dwarf for information on the unknown elf.

"You wanna drag dark into light?" Jevaris snapped. "I had a man follow her. She's in Lowtown. I just wanna get out." He looked at the carnage around him. "With my dead guards," he added sourly. "Thanks for that."

Hawke tilted her head to one side and gave him a smile. "Sounds like you have a long way to go," she said. "_Hopefully_."

The former merchant snorted. "Right. Got me a rosy future to plan out. I think I'll start by selling some boots…"

**-ooo-**

"I should have known the little squirt didn't have it in him," Varric said grimly, as they hurried back toward Kirkwall. "It _seemed_ overly ambitious for him."

Hawke shook her head. "We know he's not above hiring someone else to do the bleeding. If he was ambitious enough to fabricate a deal with the qunari for the gaatlok, who's to say stealing it from them would require any further ambition?"

"Hawke," Varric protested mildly, "there are few people in this stinking city who could face a _single_ qunari without wetting themselves. You may be the only one who could face an entire nest of them and expect to make it out both alive and with unsoiled pants."

"You forget, my dear, sexy dwarf - it was _allowed_. The qunari _wanted_ the thief to make off with the formula."

"That is _**it**__!_"

Hawke and Varric turned. Shepard had stopped dead in the path and was glaring at them with undisguised frustration.

Hawke raised her auburn brows and glanced at Varric, who shrugged.

"Yes?"

"The confused stranger is quickly becoming _really fucking _confused. And I get _very cranky_ when I'm confused. So would someone please tell me what the_ fuck _is going on before I resort to random violence?"

Varric and Hawke exchanged startled glances. Then Hawke shrugged.

"The dwarf," she tossed her head to indicate the direction they'd come, "- Jevaris - was suspected of trying to steal the formula for gaatlok from the qunari." She paused, and held up a finger. "Only he… didn't. And, as it turns out, what he _didn't_ try to steal _wasn't_ the formula for gaatlok at all, but for a poison gas that drives people mad and makes them kill anything around them... Until they die." She smiled without mirth. "Which is _currently_ in the hands of some elf in Lowtown, who is _probably_ stirring up a batch right now."

"The qunari make my head hurt," complained Varric.

Shepard rubbed her forehead. "From. The. Beginning," she enunciated slowly. "What is… or _are_… the qunari? And what is gaatlok? Is it a drug?"

"Do you mind if we hurry along while we talk?" Varric asked dryly. "I'd like to make it to the Hanged Man before the streets are filled with crazy people trying to kill me."

"And how is that different from any other evening?" Anders asked.

"You've got a point, Blondie…"

"Qunari," Shepard grated, although she consented to start walking again. "_Now_."

"The qunari are followers of the qun." Surprisingly, it was Fenris who began speaking. Since his outburst in the caverns he had remained silent, occasionally shooting Shepard a poisonous glare and maintaining the stiff posture of the deeply affronted. "Their lands are to the far north of here."

Shepard frowned. "What is the qun? Is that a person, a religion… what?"

"It is a philosophy," the elf answered. "But one so deeply held that it may well be called a religion." He looked at Shepard thoughtfully, some of his previous rancor fading around the edges. "Do you really know nothing of the qunari?"

"No." Shepard cracked her knuckles absentmindedly, a bad habit she'd never been able to break. "And somebody broke into their embassy and stole this… formula…" she trailed off. "Why does this sound like a bad spy vid?"

"Embassy?" When he wasn't snarling, the elf's voice was deep and smooth, and something about his quiet delivery made Shepard think of Thane.

"A place where foreign diplomats are housed? You do have diplomats? Politicians?" For a moment, Shepard considered a world completely without politics, and her mouth twisted in wry amusement as she dismissed the thought.

_Vakarian would have to put on a dress and start calling himself Priscilla before I believed in a world without politicians…_

Hawke put her head on one side. "I wouldn't call the Arishok a _diplomat_, exactly," she said with humor. "But the qunari live in a compound near the docks, and have done ever since they were shipwrecked here three years ago."

Shepard nodded. "Okay. We're getting somewhere," she said with satisfaction. "Explain gaatlok."

"Gaatlok is some kind of powder that makes things explode - _without_ magic or lyrium," Hawke explained. "I've never seen it, so I can't tell you exactly how it works."

"It is devastatingly powerful," Fenris answered. "I have seen gaatlok weapons aboard their dreadnoughts and in Seheron that spit fire and thunder. The qunari guard it zealously from their enemies. And for the qunari, that means anyone who does not follow the qun."

_Explosive powder… _Gun_powder?_

Shepard narrowed her eyes while a tiny part of her brain started jumping up and down excitedly. "And this… poison?"

"I know nothing of the poison," Fenris admitted, "save what the Arishok told us himself. That it is used to turn the qunari's enemies against themselves." There was both distaste and an odd note of respect in his voice. "The stronger the enemy, the more deadly the poison, as the enemy's prowess is directed toward their own."

Shepard found herself growing rather intrigued with this unknown race. _Gunpowder - or perhaps blackpowder - and chemical warfare… is it ironic or just pathetic that I'm beginning to think that these qunari are more civilized because they are better at killing people?_

"Right. So, what's our strategy now?"

Hawke pretended to give this some thought. "Rush in and and start killing things?"

"Well, it's always worked before," Varric agreed.

* * *

_A/N: Aaahh... blatant homages. There will be others, because I can't help myself. Low will save, remember?_

_Besides, Bioware started it...  
_


	8. Chapter 7

_A/N: Reminder. Bioware owns the shiny. I just borrow._

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

Shepard felt three sets of eyes on her back as the squad made their way through the crowded dockside. Even Hawke kept shooting her sideways glances, the rogue's expression openly amused. They were all clearly waiting to see her reaction to the qunari.

_She_ was waiting to see her reaction to the qunari. It was worse than a first date.

_They're not the fucking Protheans, Shepard. They have gunpowder and _maybe_ cannons, not fusion reactors or mass effect drives. Don't get your hopes up_.

In between two districts of warehouses, a raised courtyard had been gated and lightly fortified. Guarding the gates was a figure of such impressive size and build that Shepard was reminded of her one-time jailer and bodyguard, the inestimable Jimmy Vega. Two things differed, however. First, the guard on the gate was perhaps half a head taller than James, and second, he had horns.

They weren't sissy little devil horns poking up from either side of his temples. These horns were large and paired; a primary set that swept up and back gracefully, and a secondary set that thrust back just slightly above the horizontal.

Apart from the glaringly obvious difference, the guard seemed remarkably human. His pale skin had an oddly metallic tone, reminiscent of bronze, but arms, legs, and hands - apart from the length of the nails on his fingertips - were all human. His perfectly chiseled chest was bare and adorned with what appeared to be some kind of intricate tribal markings in red. His facial features were rugged and strong, and his expression stonily impassive. He was not armed, as if relying on his size alone to deter would-be trespassers.

The guard shifted his head slightly as the squad approached. "You are allowed, basra," he intoned in a raspy bass, "until the Arishok declares otherwise."

The five of them passed into the compound. Many more of the large, horned humanoids were within, bearing a striking resemblance to the one on guard duty. Some watched the squad with seeming indifference; others ignored their presence completely. Not one of them was less than massive, or had less than exquisite muscle definition, shown off to best advantage by their bare, painted chests.

Inappropriately, Shepard was reminded of an all-male burlesque show Kelly and Kasumi had dragged her to. She wondered what one of them would do if she tried to stick money in his waistband.

Behind her, Shepard heard Fenris murmur, "Do you still claim to know nothing of the qunari?"

Shepard ignored him. "Where are the women… er, females? Are they mono-gendered, or something?"

"I suppose that answers your question, Broody," Varric answered. "These are soldiers, Shepard. They don't allow females in the army."

Shepard snorted. "Why not?"

"The qunari have some odd ideas about _roles_," Hawke explained.

Shepard opened her mouth to say something else, but Varric nudged her sharply in the back. They were approaching a set of steps leading up to another gate. Before the gate was a heavy, ornately carved bench. A deep red blanket was thrown over the bench, and a number of the horned soldiers stood around it.

All these things suddenly became insignificant as a new figure appeared.

_Holy fuck_, was all Shepard could think.

This qunari stood half a head taller than the others, and was if anything even more massive. His horns were truly majestic; longer and thicker than the others of his kind, and bound with gold bands. He wore more armor than his fellows as well - large spaulders in vibrant red, with a device of interlocking chevrons or diamonds, vambraces, and a leather overskirt covering his leather breeches. His chest also sported the ubiquitous warpaint.

The Arishok.

He settled himself on the bench and fixed Hawke and her squad with a level stare.

"So I was wrong about our thief," he said without preamble. His voice was even deeper than the gate guard's, and oddly compelling.

Hawke smiled slightly. "You'll get used to it."

He did not acknowledge the quip, but continued, a faint expression of displeasure creasing his brow. "They say we were careless with our trap, that this is _our_ fault. But even without the saar-quamek, there would have been death. This elf was determined to lay blame at our feet."

His voice hardened. "Selfishness, want, denial… how do you allow this to continue?"

Hawke's face lost its usual humor. Her jaw firmed, and she turned away from the Arishok.

"If you won't talk straight, then we won't talk," she said simply.

"Hold!" he grated, before they could take more than a step.

As Hawke turned back to face him, the Arishok leaned forward on his bench. "Since we arrived," he said, "I have seen nothing but greed and weakness. Dwarves, humans, elves, just… festering." He opened one hand and gestured slightly, indicating the filth and misery evident just outside the compound gates. "No order," he stated. "No goal."

"You are one of the few I have met with any ability, and yet this, too, was random; a result of selfishness." His hand grasped at nothing, balling into a fist. "I cannot fathom," he growled, "how a mire like this can be justified." His yellow eyes burned down at Hawke. "You turned from me. Do you turn as easily from all this… _chaos_?"

Hawke shrugged. "I take no blame for this city," she declared coldly. "I'm new here, too."

The Arishok regarded her for a moment. "And it disgusts you as well?"

"Some of it," Hawke conceded. "But would it be so different anywhere else?"

The giant got to his feet and walked to the edge of the landing. "Karasten are soldiers," he said quietly, indicating one of the men beside him. "They can never vary from that assigned path, never be other than they are meant to be." He inclined his head slightly. "But they are free to choose within that role. To accept and succeed, or deny and die. Glory is clear and defined."

He turned slightly and paced a few steps along the landing. "You claim it is no different anywhere else," he acknowledged, retracing his steps. "We deny that, with a certainty that would benefit not just you, but this whole city."

"Without the ability to seek change, there is no growth," said a voice. Shepard was surprised to find that it was her own. "Without growth, there is stagnation, decay… weakness. Everything that lives must struggle to find its place. Without that…" intensity caused her voice to crack, "…without that, we are nothing but machines."

The Arishok stared at her. So did Hawke. So did everyone else. The Arishok's gaze was measuring. Everyone else's was some flavor of stunned or incredulous. Fenris was scowling.

"Do you share your companion's view, Hawke?" Although he addressed the rogue, he kept his eyes on the Spectre.

"Sorry…" said Hawke crisply, "I find myself distracted by _deny and die_."

The Arishok broke his eyes away from Shepard. "And yet you accept the random violence that plagues this nation." He exhaled slowly, eyes growing briefly abstracted. "I wonder," he said thoughtfully, his voice soft, "if the weaker of your citizens would be so closed to certainty?"

He returned to his seat on the bench. "Your kind may force our role to change, if the qun demands."

"Why aren't you more concerned about her supporters?" Hawke questioned sharply.

The rugged features were impassive again. "Our enemies strike from shadow because they cannot stand before us. This is not a revelation." The intensity of his voice belied the composure of his face. "And it does not matter. I am not here to fight. I am here to satisfy a demand you cannot understand."

Hawke looked unconvinced. "It's taking long enough."

"It will take as long as needed!" he snapped. "No ship is coming. There is no rescue from duty to the qun. I am _stuck_ here." He could not hide the disgust in his voice or in his expression.

"You could have built a ship by now, you know," Hawke commented, with a tilt of her head.

"It is not about a ship!" The Arishok was openly angered now, his eyes and brows thunderous. "Filth stole from us - not now, not the saar-quamek - years ago. A simple act of greed has bound me!" He sprang to his feet and covered the space to the edge of the landing in a single stride. "We are all denied Par Vollen until I alone recover what was lost under my command! _That_ is why this elf and her shadows are unimportant. _That_ is why I do not simply walk from this pustule of a city. Fixing your mess is not the demand of the qun, and you should all be _grateful!_" The last was said with a roar, thick muscles bunched under his armor as if he would leap from the landing and tear them all to bits with his bare hands.

For a moment he simply stood, nostrils flaring with each deep breath. Then he calmed himself, and returned to the bench slowly to seat himself. He did not look at them.

"Thank you, human, for all your service," he said in an oddly flat voice. "_Leave_."

Anders' voice was low as they filed out of the compound. "He's on the edge. The Viscount should know."

"Good idea," agreed Hawke with a sigh. "How about a hand of Wicked Grace to see who gets to be the one to tell him…"

**-ooo-**

Shepard lay back on her cot and tried to rest. Her first full day in Kirkwall had been a busy one.

The rest she sought eluded her, however. She longed for so many things she'd lost; from the profound - Thane - to the ordinary - a nice hot shower. What she wouldn't give right now for both of them…

_Not helping, Shepard_.

She sighed, and shifted position. Starting at her toes, she began flexing and relaxing muscles in turn, trying to drive the tension from them.

Thane had tried to teach her meditation techniques, but Shepard was hopeless at stillness. Her mind overflowed and her muscles itched when she attempted it. Thane had simply laughed when she'd fidgeted and complained.

"_Perhaps you are more suited to active meditation, siha," he said with amusement._

"_Yes," she answered, closing the distance between them with a look of predatory intent, "I think you may be right."_

An ache sprang up deep in her belly at the memory. She groaned aloud.

_Great. Nice going, Shepard. Raging _want_ is not going to help you get to sleep any faster, you idiot_.

Shepard forced her mind away from the thought of she and Thane and moments of shared passion, and tried to concentrate instead on deconstructing her first encounter with the qunari.

They were undeniably militaristic, rigid in their adherence to this qun. Yet Shepard sensed that there was also a kind of deep personal honor and dignity about the Arishok and his soldiers - far more than she'd been used to in the Alliance. In a way, it reminded her a little of the turian sense of duty and service to society… and the qunari certainly shared the turians' capacity for arrogance. But she'd bet that not even the turians could hold a candle to these soldiers' discipline.

Hawke was right; the Arishok was no diplomat. He was a soldier, first and foremost. And Shepard could deal with soldiers, far better than she ever could with politicians.

The Council being a fine case in point. Shepard firmly believed that had she not been able to do an end run around the Council at the start, to deal with Victus and Wrex - both soldiers, warriors, laboring under the guise of politicians - her cause to unite the galaxy against the Reapers would have died in the Council chambers.

She'd done it, though. She'd united the whole fucking galaxy - even the batarians had eventually rallied under her banner. If she could do that, Shepard reasoned, surely she could broker some kind of alliance with the qunari.

**-ooo-**

"All are forbidden."

Shepard attempted to keep her expression neutral as she looked up at the gate guard. "I would like to speak to the Arishok," she said politely, yet firmly.

"No."

Shepard bristled. "No? Why not?"

"All are forbidden."

"You let me in yesterday," she insisted.

The guard's lips curved downward slightly. "You were with the basra Hawke."

Shepard folded her arms on her chest. "Are you really going to make me go disturb Hawke and drag her down here to get you to open this damn gate?" she said with a hint of disapproval and exasperation.

The guard gave her a level stare. Clearly, he'd never had Karin Chakwas lecture him in those same tones of beleaguered disappointment.

"Yes."

Shepard dropped her arms and turned on her heel.

_What the fuck? Didn't these people know she was Commander Shepard, hero of… of fucking _everything_? She'd probably saved all their fucking _lives_ less than a local week ago!_

She stalked over to the base of a large statue and leaned against the cool stone, glaring at the offending compound and fuming slightly._ So much for diplomacy…_

Her deep green eyes scanned the docks on either side of the compound; assessing, analyzing. The buildings in Kirkwall crowded together, jostling for space. Warehouses abutted the qunari compound on it's eastern end, rising some three stories in height, and marched all the way down to the harbor's edge.

Slowly, Shepard unshipped her Mantis - now christened with her best friend's name - and unfolded it, raising the scope to her eye.

She waited, patiently, but saw no movement on any of the eastern rooftops.

_Strange. You would think they would be more cautious. Even if they don't expect a hostile force to rappel from those buildings, there's still the possibility of an assassination attempt. Varric's crossbow may not have the range of a rifle, but it would have a fair chance at a lethal shot from the roof if his target was just below him._

With a distracted hum, Shepard replaced the rifle. The makeshift holster she'd scrounged from Anders wasn't comfortable, nor would it be anything but a deadly annoyance in combat, but it kept her hands free. And she was going to need those hands soon.

Shepard hadn't always been a soldier. She'd enlisted at eighteen, yeah, and there were plenty who would say that eighteen was close enough to "always". But Shepard had lived a lifetime before eighteen. A hard, ugly lifetime. Jimmying the lock on a warehouse window, she had to admit it was a hard, ugly, _useful_ lifetime.

She pulled herself onto the sill silently, gingerly wriggling through the narrow opening and between the crates stacked high on the opposite side. She pushed her way through the crates carefully, stopping when she felt air move across her face and waiting for her eyes to adjust fully to the dimness.

She dropped lightly to the floor, hugging the crates as she crept through the warehouse, unsure if the place was guarded on the inside. Her ears picked up no sound but the faint rustling of rats or mice among the boxes, and she picked up her pace, eyes scanning the twilight for stairs or a ladder to the upper floors.

Just before the stairs she heard a faint click as she set her foot down. She had a brief flash of memory - Hawke's deft fingers tracing the edge of a buried pressure plate - and dove forward as a gout of flame erupted from beneath her.

Well, that explained the whole _no guards_ thing.

From then on, Shepard moved with glacial slowness, keeping to the very edges of the stairs, the landing, the balcony. She found two tripwires in doorways, and stepped over them, setting her feet down with exaggerated care.

It took her an hour to get to the top floor, where she experienced her second setback of the day.

_It was a good idea, dammit! Who would have thought that the buildings would have no roof access? Why wouldn't they? Kirkwall is a crowded city, isn't it? Who wouldn't make use of all this wonderfully open space above the streets?_

Shepard growled to herself. It was stifling in the stone building up here on the top floor, and she was freely perspiring. Clothesmakers here had yet to get the concept of _sweat-wicking fabric_, so Shepard had a small river running down her spine. She wiped her brow and moved to a window, hoping for a breath of fresh air to cool her.

The windows above the first story were glassless and shutterless. Shepard leaned her forearms against the sill and let her head hang outside, enjoying the faint breeze from the harbor against her overheated skin. She could see the docks spread out below her, small figures sweating and bustling as they moved cargo under the summer sun.

For a moment, Shepard glanced up at the relentless blue of the sky before dropping her head again and focusing her eyes on the qunari's courtyard. As she stared at a guard standing still as a statue, arms folded, in a gap in the courtyard wall, she felt her brain give her a tiny nudge.

Her eyes narrowed.

She turned in the narrow embrasure, arching her back to get a better view.

She smiled.

The edge of the roof was only a meter and a half away.

* * *

_A/N: Had my choice of a small cliffhanger or a big one, so I chose the small one. My brain's been sticky, and I don't know how quickly I'll get the next bit finished, especially since I'm supposed to have a paper written by Friday. Thought people would probably rather not have to wait for A) me to finish the next two bits before updating at all or B) me to finish the bit after the next bit to find out what happens to Shepard._

_Trust me.  
_


	9. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

Varric sent Edwina down for more ale as Hawke sprawled into the chair next to his, massaging her temples sourly.

"Remind me again why we left the Dark Roads?"

"Darkspawn and rock wraiths?" Varric offered. "Plus, we had all this treasure, and treasure does you no good when you're dying slowly from darkspawn taint."

"Point taken."

"I take it the Viscount was less than pleased by the news you brought him."

Hawke sighed. "Dumar wasn't the problem. It was that smarmy bastard Bran, glaring at me the whole time like I was making it up." She scowled. "Maker, I _can't_ _stand_ that man."

A vaguely shifty look passed over Varric's face.

"What?" Hawke demanded.

Varric was all innocence. "Did I say anything?"

"No," Hawke replied, eyes narrowing suspiciously, "but I _know_ that look. What have you been up to?"

"Me? Nothing," the dwarf replied, the twinkle in his eyes belying his words. "Nothing at all."

"_Varric_…" Hawke warned.

"I swear to you, Hawke, I had nothing to do with it."

"Nothing to do with what, dwarf?" she grated.

Varric went to the small chest where he kept his more important documents and unlocked it. Withdrawing a sheaf of cheap, pulpy paper, he crossed back to Hawke. Wordlessly, he handed it over.

_Behind his mask of cold disdain, the seneschal smoldered, gripped by the dark desires fueled in him by the sultry Fereldan refugee poised before his desk._

"_Kirkwall requires your service, serah Hawke," he said in a low, husky voice, closing the distance that separated him from the object of his most intimate fantasies. "As do I."_

"_What can I do for my adopted homeland, messere seneschal?" purred the lithe and lissome rogue, with a seductive sway of her luscious hips, "And her most…" her luminous green eyes raked him appreciatively, "…_masterful_ steward?"_

"_There is a task of greatest urgency that must be completed, serah Hawke." He paused scant inches from her, his eyes coolly resting on her plump, sweet lips, while in his loins fire raged out of control, as if stoked by the caress of a desire demon. _

"_Could not another perform this task of yours, messere seneschal?" she breathed, her delicious breasts rising and falling beneath the leather that covered her like a second skin._

"_You, serah Hawke, are the _only_ one with the ability to satisfy this need," he growled, sliding his hand into the temptress' auburn locks and pulling her to him roughly, his mouth claiming hers fiercely._

_She writhed in his embrace, hips grinding into his wantonly, and Bran felt his throbbing member straining against the confines of his breeches like a leashed mabari. His nimble fingers pulled at the buckles of Hawke's armor, exposing the soft skin of her throat to his hot, hot lips, and the rogue moaned, arching against him, her fingers tangling in his hair. _

_He backed her up until she was trapped against his desk, fingers swiftly completing their work and baring her bounty before him._

"_Messere seneschal," she gasped, as he took one of her pert nipples in his mouth, savoring her flavor like fine wine._

_Bran groaned his need against her breast, "Serah Hawke."_

_The lusty Fereldan's hands sought the fastening of his breeches, brushing against his hardness wonderingly as she released him from the fabric's grasp. "Seneschal," she exclaimed, emerald eyes wide with surprised pleasure, "I see that the quill is indeed _mightier_ than the sword..."_

"_Let me show you how _much_ mightier," he rasped, fingers digging into her firm hips and turning her so that she splayed forward over the smooth, polished surface of his desk…_

Hawke reached for the mug Edwina had left and downed most of it in a single swallow, not caring that some measure spilled around her lips in her haste.

"Maker!" she groaned, dropping her forehead to the table. "I'm going to _kill_ Isabela! Tell me only you and I have seen this."

"Hawke…"

"No, Varric," the rogue's muffled voice was pleading. "Don't tell me you let Fenris read it, too. I couldn't bear it."

The dwarf patted her shoulder consolingly. "Now, now… of course I didn't let Broody read it."

Hawke's sigh was heartfelt.

"The elf's reading isn't quite far enough along for that yet. But, ah… Anders happened along before I had a chance to tidy it away, and, well…"

He felt her shoulder bunch under his hand.

"Anders read this?"

Varric patted again gingerly, hoping he wasn't about to die a horrible, messy death.

"I'm afraid so."

Hawke raised her head. "You're telling me that Justice now thinks that Bran and I… that he… that… by the Maker's sanctified_ cock_, Varric, I'll never be able to…" Her brow hit the table again with a dull thump, and she covered the back of her head with both hands.

Varric winced. He'd hoped Hawke had forgotten about Justice's little problem regarding the concept of _fiction_.

"Come on, Hawke… it could be worse," he tried.

"_Bran bent me over his desk_!" she wailed. "How could it _possibly_ be worse?"

There was a startled cough from the doorway. Varric looked up to see a very uncomfortable Sebastian Vael shifting from foot to foot. Choir Boy's face was very red, and there was an expression of faint horror on his handsome features.

"That would about do it…" Varric sighed.

**-ooo-**

Shepard crouched on the narrow ledge, her hands grasping the upper sill in an underhand grip.

_Anyone looking up right now is going to have a _fantastic_ view of my ass hanging out this window_, she thought wryly, slowly sliding one hand up the wall toward the roof parapet overhead. Carefully, she eased herself out of the crouch, keeping her other hand locked on the upper sill as long as she possibly could before gliding it up the wall, now balancing precariously on the balls of her feet.

Her eagerly questing fingers found the edge of the parapet, and she dug them into the crumbling stone. When she was satisfied with her grip, she heaved herself up with a grunt, bright and dark spots exploding in front of her eyes.

_Shit. I need to eat more_.

Breakfast this morning had been a bowl of thick, gluey oatmeal topped with a bit of crumbled honeycomb. Last night's dinner had been bread soaked in broth and some cheese. She appreciated Anders' generosity, but Shepard knew she needed _a lot_ more calories to satisfy the metabolism that came with her…_ upgrades_. Anders himself put away a decent amount, and she suspected the act of kindness in sharing had left him with less than a full belly as well.

_You can deal with that later, Shepard. Now you do the job that is in front of you_.

Shepard cast her eyes over the rooftops. Apart from some pigeons bobbing and cooing in the corners, the burning expanse of stone was empty. Unwilling to chance discovery, she activated her cloak, angling northward over the buildings, until she reached a spot high above the Arishok's bench.

Kneeling down, she reached over her shoulder to grab Garrus. She unfolded the rifle slowly, marshaling her breathing, letting everything fall away but the moment.

She lowered her eye to the scope and eased the rifle in an arc from left to right, searching. A flash of red caught her eye, and she reversed the rifle, seeking it out.

And there he was. He stood at the edge of what was clearly a sparring ring, watching two of his soldiers as they clashed, his face impassive.

Shepard smiled widely, her cheek brushing against the rifle stock. Her finger, lying along the casing just above the trigger guard, twitched.

_Gotcha_.

Still smiling, Shepard replaced Garrus on her back. Slowly, the smile faded.

_Now how the hell do I get down?_

**-ooo-**

"Andraste's grace, Isabela," chastised Sebastian, "do you not get your fill of tawdry acts at the Blooming Rose? Must you invent them as well, to blacken Hawke's good name?"

"What did I do?" the pirate wondered, raising an eyebrow curiously.

"Do not pretend innocence, Isabela. It was not the act of a moment to pen such vulgar scribblings."

"_Oh!_ My friend fiction!" Isabela gave the Chantry brother a suggestive smile. "Did you enjoy reading it?" she asked. "Did it give you any… _ideas_?"

The Prince of Starkhaven folded his arms across his armored chest. "_Must_ you persist in these efforts?"

"Why not?" Isabela turned lazily and rested her elbows back on the bar. The posture brought her magnificent cleavage into full display. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't the Grand Cleric _release_ you from your vows?" Her voice dropped into a throaty purr. "Those awful, awful vows…"

Sebastian bridled. "Vows or no, I will remain chaste in the eyes of the Maker and his holy bride."

"Poor, poor Hawke," murmured Isabela pityingly.

"It's going to be 'poor, poor Isabela' in a moment." Hawke's voice was tart.

Isabela's dark brows arched, and her head turned to follow the smaller rogue. "Come on, it was just a little fun…" she protested.

"Bran? Of all people, Isabela…"

The dusky rogue pouted. "Well, you didn't like the one I wrote with Knight-Captain Cullen."

It was Hawke's turn to cross her arms and stare at the pirate. "Non-mages don't get harrowed, Isabela."

"Oh, they do the way _I_ write it," she retorted smugly.

"_Isabela!_"

**-ooo-**

It took Shepard some time to find a route down into the courtyard that was at least partly in cover. Her cloak wouldn't last forever, and she didn't particularly like the idea of being shot off the wall if it failed before she made it to the ground.

She also considered her approach strategy. Although the idea of simply _appearing_ at the Arishok's side appealed to her sense of humor, she doubted it would appeal to theirs. Startling a large group of highly disciplined soldiers was a good way to die very, very quickly.

In the end, she chose to simply disengage her cloak, stand up, and walk slowly out from her place of concealment, hands raised in (she hoped) the universal sign for _I don't want any trouble_.

_Please let me be right that they're not the type to shoot first and not ask questions, ever._

She was surrounded by a ring of very sharp, very pointy bits of metal almost immediately. The faces behind the pointy bits of metal did not look amused in the slightest.

_Riiiight, Shepard. This is why you don't tease the tiger. Some creatures have no sense of humor…_

"I wish to speak to the Arishok," she declared. She remembered the giant's words from the day before and added, "I am not here to fight. I am here to satisfy a demand."

There was some shifting and muttering beyond the ring of metal.

"You." It was not a question. The Arishok did not waste time with questions he already knew the answers to.

Shepard dipped her head in acknowledgment as the soldiers in front of her fell back to allow their leader through. As the Arishok drew closer, Shepard felt her head tilt back in order to remain in eye contact.

_Damn, he's big_.

Shepard was tall for a woman, and while she wasn't always on even eye level with human men, she rarely had to _look up_ to meet their eyes. Even James, at just shy of two meters, only required her to raise her eyes slightly. Oh, some turians required her to tip her head a bit, but usually Shepard managed to turn this into a just-short-of-arrogant lift of her chin. And even in Wrex's presence, she'd never felt _dwarfed_ before.

_He's fucking massive. Like a cross between James and a fucking yahg._

Her lips twitched involuntarily. _But better looking._

The Arishok's brow lifted almost imperceptibly. "You wished to speak, basra," he prompted.

Unconsciously, Shepard adopted her "we're having a conversation" stance; arms folded, weight shifted back on her right heel. Muscles in the ring of pointy death tightened, but eased when she made no other movements.

"I want to talk to you about the black powder. The gaatlok."

"No."

Shepard's jaw tightened. "You people are awfully fond of that word."

"It saves time." The Arishok turned his back, signaling an end to her audience with him.

"Wait!" Unthinkingly, Shepard shifted forward, reaching, and the circle constricted around her.

She raised her hands again and eased back, but the circle remained closed.

"I'm not looking for the damned formula for your precious gaatlok," she ground out. "My people have had it for more than a thousand years!"

The Arishok paused. "I find that hard to believe. The qunari have yet to encounter such a people."

"No," Shepard agreed, "I expect you wouldn't have. I am not from Thedas originally."

That turned him back to face her. He studied her silently, those odd, yellow eyes boring into hers. But she was Commander Catriona Shepard, and she'd stared down_ far_ worse.

"You are not like the other bas," the Arishok noted, finally. "You do not waste time in fear."

Now it was Shepard's turn for a monosyllabic answer. "No."

"Continue."

Shepard took a deep breath. "You have gaatlok - black powder. You use this gas… what was it called… saw-something… to turn enemies against their own troops. You have what my people would call _technology_… advanced ways of doing things. Not magic, but… _thinking_… figuring things out." She paused. "I want to know more. About your people, about your… technology."

Again, Shepard found herself subjected to the long stare. "You wish to learn? To submit to the qun?"

She shifted warily. _Submit_ was not a word she was comfortable with. Ever.

"I wish to learn, yes," she said carefully. "To submit, no."

"Then _leave_, basra."

"Dammit! What does it take to have a conversation with you?" Shepard growled. She stepped forward, ignoring the weapons around her.

"What did you propose we were having?" The Arishok also stepped forward. Shepard was forced to tilt her head even farther back, and he was obliged to bend his to look down at her. The sun flashed on the gold bands around his horns.

"An argument?" she retorted.

The yellow eyes narrowed slightly. "We do not discuss such things with those not of the qun. There is no purpose in it."

"Look," Shepard was pleased that she kept her voice even, "you said you were _stuck_ here. Well, I'm stuck here too, and not simply by the bonds of duty! I am _literally_ stuck here, so far away that I don't even know where home is in comparison." The point of a spear resting against the hollow of her throat drew a bead of blood as she shifted her weight angrily. "_Everyone_ I've met here seems to rely on what they call magic rather than technology, _except_ your people. You might have knowledge that can help me, but I won't know unless you _fucking talk_ to me!"

"N…"

"Don't even say it!" Shepard snapped. "You want proof I'm not after your precious gaatlok? That my people are long _past the need_ for gaatlok? Let me show you."

She stepped back from the press of steel and reached over her back. "Find me your best archer."

There was no move from the soldiers around her. "Do it _now_," she commanded.

The Arishok gave a slight nod of his head.

A soldier stepped apart from the others, a monstrous longbow in one taloned hand.

"Good," Shepard nodded. "Fire an arrow. Anywhere, I don't care."

The soldier looked to the Arishok.

"Just do it," Shepard ordered. "Trust me," she added flatly, "it won't have a chance to land."

The Arishok nodded again, crossing his arms over his massive chest.

The archer nocked an arrow and drew his bow - _shit, it's got to be well over a hundred pound draw_ - in one fluid motion. He loosed the arrow slightly shy of a 45 degree angle, secretly delighting Shepard.

_That's right. Make it _easy_ for me…_

She breathed in, lifted Garrus, and time seemed to wind down. Her eye tracked the arrow for a split-second, she exhaled, and her finger tightened.

The arrow _disintegrated_ with the report of the high-powered rifle.

_**Nine**. Shepard, you better know what you're doing_.

* * *

_A/N: Okay, so I said I wasn't going to do this. But I can't help it. It's just sitting there, asking to be posted._

_The good news is that I am completely procrastinating on my actual real life writing, and have already gotten into the next bit. So you shouldn't be left hanging for long._

_Also: _friend fiction_. Heh._


	10. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

"And then what happened?" Anders' face wore an expression of horrified fascination, his spoon halfway to his mouth.

Shepard shrugged. "He told me he would 'consider my request'. And then he kicked me out."

_But not before I gave him something to think about…_

Anders struggled to regain control of his lower jaw. "You… you broke into the qunari compound, armed with your…" he gestured vaguely with one hand. Luckily, it was not the one still holding the forgotten spoon.

"Garrus," Shepard prompted with a grin. She was still flying high from the aftereffects of adrenaline.

Anders rolled his eyes. "… and you demanded all sorts of things from the Arishok before showing up one of his soldiers by _shooting his arrow out of the sky_? And you're still _alive_?"

Shepard was smug. "Ye… oh, no, wait. I forgot. I also told him he owed me his life."

"_I will consider your request. Now _leave_." Once again, the Arishok turned away._

"_You're welcome, by the way," Shepard called after him._

_A tiny hesitation. _

"_For your life, of course. If I'd have wanted you dead, you would be."_

_He spun, advancing on her with a dangerous look in his eye. Shepard simply raised an eyebrow. "In the future," she said, gesturing to her rooftop entry point, "watch your canopy."_

"Only Hawke," Anders stated flatly, "could manage to find and rescue someone even crazier than she is."

Shepard took a large bite of stew. "It wasn't _crazy_," she mumbled around the mouthful. "It was a _calculated risk_."

It was clear the healer didn't agree with her assessment.

"But," she continued, swallowing, "today's little adventure is beside the point. What's more important is the future."

"If you keep threatening the Arishok, you won't have one," Anders said dryly.

Shepard rolled her eyes at him. "I didn't threaten. I pointed out a tactical weakness. He should be grateful."

The healer snorted. "I don't think the qunari are big on gratitude."

Shepard raised an eyebrow. "You think? Anyway, while I thank you for your healing and hospitality, it's pretty obvious that I'm going to need a job." She paused for another bite. "Or whatever it is you people have here."

Anders chewed thoughtfully for a moment. "You should talk to Varric," he admitted. "That devious dwarf has his fingers in a lot of pies in Kirkwall. He'll probably be able to help you find something." His spoon scraped on the bottom of his wooden bowl. "Do you have any skills, apart from stabbing people and shooting fireballs?"

He gave her a shrewd look. "Don't think I didn't notice that part, yesterday."

"Wasn't trying to hide it," Shepard said with surprise. "But since we're on the topic… a _stick_? That's got to be for show, right?"

"What?" Anders looked mildly confused. "You mean my staff?"

"Yep. You were… shooting things - energy, ice… from it. _Apparently_." Shepard did not hide her skepticism.

Anders took note of her tone, and his eyes hardened. "And how is that any different than what you were doing? I thought you said you didn't _have_ magic where you came from."

"Now I'm not so sure," she admitted. "From what I've seen, I'm beginning to think it's similar to what we call _biotics_ - the ability to generate and manipulate dark energy with your own body."

"So you _do_ have magic," Anders said with satisfaction. "And you're a mage."

"What? Me?" Shepard laughed. "Not really. I have a very low grade potential for biotics, but never bothered with an amp. I'm strictly tech."

"An imp?" The healer looked aghast. "You mean _all_ of your mages are maleficarum?"

Shepard's brow furrowed deeply. "Are what?"

"Blood mages."

At her look of continuing bafflement, he went on. "Pacts with demons? Imps?"

The light suddenly dawned, and Shepard crowed with laughter. "I said _amp_, not imp! Short for _amplifier_. I suspect that, for whatever reason, your biotics are somehow strong enough that you don't need them." She sobered quickly. "Although I'm still not sure how you manage cryo blasts. That's not something I've ever seen a biotic do before." Shepard gave him a hard look. "_Or_ a stick. It's strictly a tech thing."

Anders shook his head. "Now I'm the one who's lost. What's a cryo blast?"

"You know," Shepard waved her empty bowl. "Freezing people."

He shrugged. "I'm good with ice."

"So I noticed. And that's still part of your magic business?"

"What else would it be?" Anders answered. "It's just elemental control. You can shoot fireballs, can't you?"

"Not on my own," Shepard retorted. She tapped her omni-tool. "This can. I just direct them. But _fuck_ if I'll believe that a _stick_ can do the same," she added.

A look of understanding came over Anders' face. "Ah. No," he replied. "You're right, sort of. A staff can't do magic on it's own, exactly. They usually have lyrium running through them, and a mage can use one to focus or add to his own abilities."

Shepard's jaw dropped. "You're saying that you can use a _stick _as some kind of exterior amp?"

"I don't know," Anders countered. "Am I?"

Shepard set her bowl down with a thump and scrubbed her face. Her earlier high had fled. She sighed. "Fuck if I know."

Anders watched her with something akin to sympathy. Justice still had trouble sometimes adapting to life outside the Fade. He suspected Shepard might feel the same.

"You never answered my question," he pointed out gently.

Shepard looked up. "Which one?"

He collected her bowl from the ground and took both dishes to a shallow basin of water. "Your skills," he clarified, swishing the bowls around in the water. "Besides the obvious, of course."

The woman laughed without humor. "Pissing off the Powers That Be, foiling mad scientists, terrorists and assassination attempts, surviving suicide missions, brokering peace in 300 year-old conflicts, reversing the sterilization of entire species, saving the galaxy from threats beyond imagining… should I continue?" Shepard rolled her shoulders.

"In the end," she said, "it all boils down to doing the job that's in front of you."

**-ooo-**

"Varric," Isabela said accusingly, "you and Hawke have been holding out on me."

The dwarf looked up from shuffling a deck of cards. "Excuse me?"

"I have to find out from Merrill and Fenris that Hawke's got a pretty new mage girl?"

Varric raised his eyebrows. "One, there is no way that Shepard could be called a _girl_. She is most definitely a _woman_. And two, the ability to shoot fireballs nonwithstanding, she claims she isn't a mage."

"And pretty?" Isabela challenged.

"I'll give you the pretty part. Although I suspect that _dangerously attractive_ might be a better description."

"Oooh. Dangerous," Isabela purred. "I _like_ dangerous."

"I know, Rivaini," Varric sighed. "I know."

The pirate threw herself into a chair. "So when do I get to meet her?"

Varric shrugged. "She's down at Anders clinic. I suspect you'll see her there when you turn up for your discreet weekly visit."

"I was just there this morning, and I didn't see her. Oooh, and Anders didn't even say anything! That wretch."

"I don't know what to tell you, Rivaini. Maybe Anders will bring her with him tonight."

"Great. As if one mage at the table wasn't enough," Fenris growled. "Where's Hawke?"

"Languishing at at party for the De Launcets," Varric reported. "I believe she plans to escape by claiming the onset of spotted fever."

Fenris raised a pale eyebrow. "Her mother again?"

"Of course. You don't think Hawke would volunteer, do you?"

The elf's lips twitched. "Not unless there was the prospect of bloodshed." He looked down. "I see that Griffon made it."

The mabari sat up at the mention of his name.

"He never misses a night, you know."

Fenris gave the hound a pat as he took a seat. "I hope he brought coin this time. Last time, I ended up with three marrow bones after he bluffed on a weak hand."

"I don't know how you knew he was bluffing," Isabela commented. "He fooled _me_ completely. I folded a perfectly good hand, too."

The elf shrugged his lean shoulders. "I know his tells."

"Everyone," Anders greeted them from the doorway. "I hope you don't mind that I brought Shepard along."

Isabela sat forward eagerly.

"Of course not, Blondie."

"Good. She wants to talk to you about finding work."

"Well," demanded Isabela, "where is she?" Anders had entered the room unaccompanied.

"She said she had to, 'visit the little girls' bucket'," he answered. "I think she meant she needed the privy."

"Oh," said Isabela with disappointment. "So, tell me about her."

Anders shrugged. "What's there to tell? She's crazier than Hawke, and she's either a bigger bullshit artist than Varric, or she's some kind of legend where she comes from."

"Crazier than Hawke?" Varric wondered. "Sounds like there's a story in that, Anders. Care to share?"

The mage leaned back in his chair. "What would you say if I told you that she broke into the qunari compound and demanded an audience with the Arishok?"

"I'd say that somebody was shitting somebody."

"Ask her yourself," Anders motioned to the doorway where Shepard stood.

Isabela's eyes raked over the woman. Deep black hair, deep green eyes. Delicate features that nevertheless showed strength of purpose in every expression. Lean, hard body not quite masked by a feminine tunic and leggings.

"Varric," said the woman, smiling. "Fenris," the elf got a cool but cordial nod.

She took a chair between Anders and Varric and met the pirate's scrutiny curiously.

"Shepard, this is Isabela," Anders offered. "Formerly _Captain_ Isabela."

"Captain?" Shepard asked, with interest. "You have a military rank?"

Isabela laughed. "Andraste's tits, no! I was captain of the _Siren_, a lovely little ship. Lost her to the rocks in a storm three years ago." She sighed gustily. "And here I am."

"Isabela is… or was… a pirate," Anders supplied.

"Smuggler, really," Isabela corrected depreciatingly.

"Far be it for me to interrupt the pleasantries, but Blondie tells us you broke into the qunari compound to talk to the Arishok?" Varric broke in. "I must admit to rabid curiosity. What were you thinking? And why?"

"And how is it you're still alive?" added Fenris.

Shepard shrugged. "Maybe it's true what they say; you only die once…"

* * *

_A/N: Okay, okay... another short chapter with not much going on. Still, I felt there was some housekeeping that needed to happen to explain a few things - like how Shepard was going to live in Kirkwall, etc. _

_I hope to be back to some action in the next chapter._

_NOTE to the NOTE: Also, may I add that - like fat-bottomed girls - reviews make the rockin' world go round. Thanks to everyone who comments on my work. I love to know that people are enjoying it. _

_Concrit is also always welcome.  
_


	11. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

Shepard woke up in darkness, a scream on her lips.

"_Thane!_"

"Shepard?"

For a moment, Shepard's mind convinced her that the voice was soft, deep and possessed of a purr-like quality that made parts of her melt and other parts tingle.

"Shepard? What's wrong?"

The moment passed. This voice was a pleasant, lightly accented tenor, currently bearing overtones of concern.

"Anders?" She heard the healer moving around in the darkness.

"Yes? Are you all right?" A soft blue glow appeared, outlining the shape of his hand and gently falling on his face.

She sat up, burying her face in her hands.

_Thane, one shoulder and part of his chest resting lightly against the Cerberus assassin, the gleam of Leng's sword clearly visible where it protruded from the drell's back._

"Yeah, I'm fine," Shepard answered, her voice muffled by her hands. "It was… just a dream. A nightmare."

_A memory…_

Anders' hand came to rest on her shoulder comfortingly, as he dropped to his haunches beside her cot. "I can sympathize all too well," he said quietly. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

_Bring back the dead?_

She shook her head. "No. No, but thank you."

He gave her shoulder a squeeze. "If you need anything, let me know."

Shepard nodded, not trusting her voice. As Anders made his way back to his cot, she swung her legs over the side of hers and pushed herself to her feet. She didn't want to attempt sleep again, not with the thoughts currently swimming through her head.

The sun was blushing the sky with the faintest pink and orange, causing the native stone of Kirkwall to glow with a pale warmth. Shepard leaned her back against a wall and watched the light change, pondering the odds that she'd ever find her way home.

"Well, well. _Wot_ do we 'ave 'ere?"

Shepard's eyes narrowed as they flicked over the four human males and their grinning leader.

"Get lost."

"I don't think you knows who you're dealing wiv," said the leader, swaggering into Shepard's personal space.

"A dead man, if you keep it up."

The man was either too stupid or too full of himself to catch the deadly harmonics in Shepard's voice. "Now, now… a little fing like you ought t'know better than to talk a game to the Coterie." He reached out as if to stroke Shepard's dark hair.

Shepard's hand caught his wrist. "Last time. Walk, or things will get ugly."

A sneer replaced the man's grin, and he yanked his wrist free. "Leave 'er alive. Slavers'll pay handsome for this 'un."

In one movement, Shepard turned and buried her omni-blade in his gut. The others were already reaching for weapons as she pulled it free. She ducked under the swing of a sword to cut down a second man, pivoted, and lashed out with a foot, catching a third in the chest and knocking him back. A shield bash from another caught her shoulder and jaw, spinning her and causing her to stumble against the wall. She hit the ground and rolled, coming up behind the man with the shield. One step brought her to his unprotected back; she reached around to grab his forehead with one hand and draw the omni-blade across his throat with the other.

"T'the void with the slavers," muttered one of the two surviving attackers. "Kill 'er."

They both rushed her. Shepard slipped sideways, catching the dagger thrust of one and redirecting its momentum into the other. The man gasped, looking down at his comrade's knife buried in his side, and Shepard smashed an elbow into his face. The dagger's wielder snarled and yanked the blade free, slashing at Shepard's eyes. She parried with the omni-blade, catching the man's jaw with a right hook. As he faltered, she brought the blade around in an arc, slicing through his leather armor with ease and opening a line of bright red across his chest.

The man stumbled back, looking from the gaping wound on his chest to the Spectre and back again.

"You're goin' t' regret doin' that, you little doglord's bitch," he spat.

Shepard advanced on him slowly, arms loosely at her side.

"Shit." With a backwards scramble, the man turned and fled.

Coolly, Shepard went over the bodies for valuables and found one of the thugs still alive. She considered for a moment, then went to the door of the clinic and called for Anders.

"What is it?" the healer questioned, his hair and face still sleep tousled. Evidently, he'd managed to drop off again after her nightmare awakened them both.

"Can you heal him?" Shepard gestured to the bleeding man.

Anders hurried to the man's side, dropping to his knees.

"Coterie?" he glanced up at Shepard, and back down to the man.

"That's what they said."

"Hmmm. This is against my better judgment, but…" Anders' eyes closed in concentration, and his hands and arms lit with the now-familiar blue glow. The wound in the man's side ceased to bleed, and color began to return to his face. When Anders sat back on his heels, the glow dropping away, the man opened his eyes and looked around.

Shepard put her foot on his neck.

"You now owe me your life," she said coldly. "And you're going to take a message to your buddies. Any one of them tries laying a hand on me, they die. Any one of them tries hunting for slaves anywhere near this place, they die. Stay out of my sight. You got that?"

The man managed as much of a nod as he could with Shepard's boot in the way.

"Good." She released him. Wisely, he slipped away quietly.

Anders looked up at her and got to his feet. "You're bleeding," he said softly, gesturing to her face and forearm.

"Just scratches."

The healer smiled. "Even so…" He reached out a hand, moving it over the cut on her arm before gently touching his fingers to her face. Pain she hadn't even had a chance to register faded away.

"Thanks," she said. She grinned suddenly. "That's an awfully handy talent to have."

Anders grinned back, suddenly seeming younger, less haggard. "Oh, I have plenty of handy talents."

"Anders," Shepard scolded, "are you flirting with me?"

The grin widened. "Perhaps," he admitted.

"My. It seems someone's been busy." Hawke strolled out of the shadows, shooting a pointed look toward the Coterie corpses.

"I gave them a chance," Shepard said evenly. "They didn't take it."

"You'll get no complaints from me," Hawke answered. "That's a few less to deal with next time the Coterie decides it would be a good idea to attack me."

The rogue smiled. "I'd _hoped_ to catch you before you got into any trouble. I should have known it's next to impossible to move faster than trouble in Kirkwall."

Shepard shrugged. "Wasn't much trouble."

"Why don't we see if we can find some more, then?" Hawke laughed. "Come with me. There's work for you, but we need to go by my place first."

**-ooo-**

"You're a bit taller than I am, but I think these will work - at least until you can find a set you like and have them fitted to you."

Hawke lifted a neat pile of items out of the chest and handed them to Shepard. As she took them, Shepard realized it was armor - a flexible banded leather tunic and leggings, hardened vambrace and greaves, and surprisingly soft leather gauntlets.

"You'll probably want to find some boots that fit you better as well, but this will do well for a start." Hawke grinned. "I'd offer to help you with it, but something tells me you're not a stranger to armor."

"Thank you, Hawke," Shepard replied, touched by the rogue's thoughtfulness. At the other's gesture, she retreated behind a screen to change into the new items.

The smell of the leather brought a lump to her throat, reminding her as it did of Thane, but she swallowed it down and focused on adjusting the armor properly. The fit was actually pretty decent - although Shepard was somewhat taller than Hawke, the rogue was a bit curvier, and things evened out fairly well. The greaves were the tiniest bit short, but Shepard supposed that beat having them too long and chafing at her knees and ankles.

Hawke's grin widened as Shepard stepped out from behind the screen. "Not bad," she commented. "And as a finishing touch…" she handed over a sheathed dagger as long as Shepard's forearm.

Before Shepard could say a word, Hawke held up both hands to stall her. "I know you have your own, and you're clearly quite skilled with it, even if I have no idea how it works. But it's always nice to have a spare, just in case."

Shepard didn't argue. "I appreciate your generosity, Hawke," she said, fastening the sheath to her belt.

Hawke waved the thanks away. "Just wait until I've dragged you into yet another mess and we're fighting for our lives. _Then_ you'll wish you never heard of me. Now, let's get down to the Hanged Man. The others are waiting for us there."

**-ooo-**

The work turned out to be twofold. The first part involved locating a rare plant for a man named Sol, and the second involved locating a missing qunari scouting party.

"The Wounded Coast is _the_ favorite holiday spot for bandits and raiders," Hawke informed her when Shepard wondered at the size of the squad in comparison to the size of the tasks. "_And_ the Tal-Vashoth. And Isabela is only coming along because she claims she's bored and has seen every hat in Kirkwall three times. I suspect she just wants to see your ass in leather."

"I'm standing right here," Isabela complained.

"Tell me she's wrong, Rivaini," Varric chuckled.

Shepard ignored the banter. "Tal-Vashoth?"

"Qunari who have forsaken the qun," Fenris explained. "Sometimes they find work as mercenaries. The rest of the time they cut out the middleman. They seem to delight in killing and chaos."

Shepard studied the elf for a moment, pursing her lips thoughtfully. "You seem to be very knowledgeable about the qunari. Did you study them, or something?"

"No," he replied. "Not in the way you mean. I lived in Seheron for a time, however, and I learned of them while I was there."

"Seheron? Is that the land they come from?"

"No. The qunari come from Par Vollen. Seheron is an island north of Tevinter. The qunari and Imperium have struggled over control of the island for centuries."

Shepard nodded, tucking the information away in the event it might be useful.

_Might not be a bad idea to get my hands on a map at some point. I can't keep all of this straight._

"Are we ready?" Hawke asked cheerfully, looking around at her squad. "Everyone been to the privy?"

Shepard bit back a sharp reply. _You're the FNG here, Shepard. This is Hawke's mission. You might as well get used to thinking like a recruit again._

But she didn't have to like it.

**-ooo-**

The Wounded Coast turned out to be a rugged, desolate stretch of cliffs and dunes, filled with isolated coves and caves. The squad was moving along a sandy trail toward an area where a natural outcropping of rock narrowed the pathway when several figures appeared, some wearing armor and others in robes that reached to their feet.

"Hunters!" Fenris hissed, reaching for his sword.

"Stop right there," commanded the lead figure. "You are in possession of stolen property. Back away from the slave now and you'll be spared."

Hawke's face was a mask of righteous indignation. "Fenris is a free man!" she retorted.

The robed man sneered. "I won't repeat myself. Back away from the slave. _Now!_"

The silver-blue aura flared to life around the elf. "I am _not_ your slave!" he snarled, launching himself at the figures.

The squad broke apart professionally. Varric dropped back, pulling his crossbow; Isabela broke open a vial of something smoky at her feet and disappeared; and Hawke spun and kicked a stoppered globe directly at the greatest concentration of men. Shepard cloaked and slipped to flank the attackers, scanning for archers.

A ball of flame exploded where Isabela and Shepard had just been standing. Eyes narrowed, Shepard realized that the men in long robes must be biotics - or magic users - and that the tell-tale glow was not, as she'd previously thought, mandatory. As she waited for an opening to incinerate one of the robed figures without friendly splash to one of her squad, she caught a glint of metal behind Varric.

"Varric, get down!" she bellowed, hoping that the dwarf would trust her enough to comply as she sent a plasma round streaking toward its target.

Whether it was Shepard's warning or the sight of the fireball barreling down on him, Varric ducked and rolled, narrowly missing both a sword thrust and the blast. Shepard was not so lucky. As her cloak dropped, one of the armored men took advantage of her distraction and stabbed her from behind.

His incoming blow was not fast enough to trigger Shepard's kinetic barriers. The blade was barely turned aside by the banded leather jacket.

"Shepard!"

Varric was sighting on her. With a grin, she slid to one side, hearing the thump of the crossbow's string and a gurgle behind her. The bolt had taken the man right through the throat.

"Nice shot!" she called, triggering her cloak once again.

"Bianca, you little minx!" Varric exclaimed. "That was beautiful."

The hostiles were close to two dozen strong, but once the men in robes were down, the others proved to be little challenge for Hawke's squad. Isabela and Shepard attacked from stealth, and Hawke skipped nimbly through the attackers, the three of them presenting very difficult targets for their enemies. Varric and Fenris were the easier targets, but any fighters attempting to concentrate their attacks on one member of the squad would find themselves flanked by another. It was simply a matter of time before the last one fell to the squad's blades.

Hawke paused to clean her daggers on the leader's robes while Isabela began to thoroughly loot the corpses. Fenris, chest heaving and still haloed by energy, continued to grip his massive sword like he wanted nothing more than to cut them all down again.

A movement caught the elf's eye. One of the robed men was still alive and vainly attempting to crawl away. Fenris tossed his blade aside and stalked to where the man struggled, grabbing a fistful of chestnut hair.

"Where is he?" Fenris demanded harshly.

Up close, the robed man was clearly young, maybe only twenty or so. His eyes were full of fear.

"Please don't kill me," he begged.

The enraged elf's grip tightened, pulling the young man's head back savagely. "Tell me!"

"I don't know. I don't know, I swear," the young man gasped. "Hadriana brought us. She's at the holding caves north of the city." His expression was pleading. "I can show you the way."

"No need," Fenris grated. "I know which ones you speak of."

"Then let me go," the man whispered. "I beg you. I swear I won't…"

Fenris shifted his grasp on the young man's head. "You chose the wrong master," he intoned, quickly flexing his arms and snapping the young man's neck.

He dropped the corpse and stood up, his hands clenching and unclenching.

"_Hadriana_," he spat. "I was a fool to think I was free. They'll _never_ let me be!"

Hawke eased up on the furious elf cautiously. "This is someone you know?" she asked quietly.

Fenris spun away from the corpse and strode over to his discarded weapon. "My old master's apprentice," he growled, picking up the blade and slinging it onto his back. "I remember her well. A sniveling social climber that would sell her own children if she thought it would please Danarius."

His face contorted with barely controlled fury. "If she's here, it's at _his_ bidding. I _knew_ he wouldn't let this go!"

Hawke flashed him a wolfish smile. "Then why are we standing around?"

Fenris took a deep breath, struggling to compose himself. "The holding caves held slaves in the old times, but apparently they are no longer abandoned. We must go quickly, before Hadriana has a chance to prepare, or flee."

"These men were slavers?" Shepard asked.

"Slave hunters," Fenris corrected shortly.

Hawke shot her a warning look, but Shepard ignored it. "You were a slave?" she pressed.

Fenris' mouth twisted. "Yes," he snarled. "Yes, I was a slave. Does it make you happy to hear that, mage?"

Whatever fragile peace Fenris had come to regarding Shepard was gone. The markings on his body lit up again as he moved to within inches of her, his posture clearly threatening.

Shepard stared him down. "No," she replied. "Slavery disgusts me, and I have to admit to killing a lot of people who happened to disagree with me on the issue."

"Bah…" The elf made a sound between a snort and a grunt. The glow around his limbs eased, but he did not back down fully. "Mages always desire power over others, whether they call it slavery or not. That is magic's legacy."

Shepard felt her temper snap. She unfastened her omni-tool with a practiced movement, reaching out with her left hand to grasp Fenris' wrist.

The elf's eyes widened, emotions jostling for possession of his expression. He opened his mouth to speak, but Shepard interrupted him.

"No." Her right hand came down on his arm, slapping the omni-tool against the material of his long gauntlets and fastening the clasp.

She released him, her eyes glittering dangerously. "There. Now _you're_ the mage."

"What?" He glared down at the 'tool and then back at Shepard. "What trickery is this?"

"None," Shepard told him, once again taking hold of his arm. With a brush of her fingers, she activated the 'tool, setting it to fire a timed blast. "Point at something, and it will burn."

The Spectre's face hardened as the elf hesitated. "Do it. That is an _order_, elf."

She saw her words sink down and latch onto something deeply buried in Fenris' mind. Almost as if in a daze, he extended his arm toward a pile of brush and driftwood.

Obediently, the omni-tool released the plasma round. In shock, Fenris stared down at his arm as the clump of debris burst into flame.

Before he had a chance to collect himself, Shepard was on him, shoving him back into the rock outcropping. "I've shot fireballs; you've shot fireballs," she growled. "Now that we're even, I'll ask you once - _just_ once… _do we have a problem?_ If so, we'll settle it here and now. No weapons. No 'magic'. Just you and I beating the living_ fuck _out of each other until only one of us is left standing. Understand?"

Shepard was vaguely aware of Hawke and the others staring at her in shocked disbelief, but she didn't care. She was _settling_ something, goddammit. She may not be the CO here, but _fuck_ if she was going to keep taking this kind of shit from _anyone_.

Fenris met her eyes; stared into them for heartbeat after heartbeat.

"We do not have a problem," he finally answered, his voice low.

"Good," she replied, voice equally low. She released him and stepped back.

"That was… _shivery_," Isabela sighed with a delicious little shudder.

Varric gave her an incredulous look. "You're still planning on trying Shepard after that performance, Rivaini? You're either very brave or crazier than I thought."

"You have no sense of adventure, Varric," the pirate complained.

Varric raised his eyebrows. "I like all my bits to stay on the inside, where they belong, Rivaini."

"Well," said Hawke, with a slight edge to her voice, "now that we've all enjoyed attacking each other, what do you say we go find the bad people and attack _them_ instead?"

Fenris very carefully did not look at Shepard when he responded. "I am sorry, Hawke. You are right."

Shepard did not apologize. Instead, she held out one hand to Fenris. "My omni-tool, if you don't mind?"

Wordlessly, the elf held out his arm and Shepard transferred the 'tool back to her own left forearm. Then she tugged her armor a little, rolled her shoulders, and straightened her back. "Hawke?"

The rogue's face was unreadable. "Shepard."

**-ooo-**

"You've got balls, Shepard, I'll give you that."

"Hmmm?" Clearly Shepard was preoccupied.

Varric gave her a nudge. "Even Hawke hasn't called Broody out on his mage shit. I can tell it bothers her, but she doesn't push the issue with him."

"I don't really care how he feels about mages or biotics or… _whatever_," Shepard admitted. "He can cling to his prejudices all he likes. I'm just not going to take anything directed at me." She shrugged. "The sooner we got that established, the better."

Varric remained silent as they trudged along, but Shepard could sense that there was something else the dwarf was dying to say.

"Spit it out, Varric," she sighed. "Permission to speak freely."

The dwarf quirked an eyebrow. "I've never needed permission to speak freely, Shepard. It's just something I do."

Shepard motioned with one hand. _Well, then…_

"Don't take this the wrong way and gut me," he said with feigned caution, "but for someone who doesn't like slavery, you sure are fond of words like _order_ and _permission_."

Shepard snorted. "I'm _military_, Varric. Or I was. The military is big on words like _order_ and _permission_. And _respect_."

"She and Lady Manhands should get along famously, then," Isabela noted.

"They do have a number of things in common. Like scaring the piss out of me," Varric commented dryly.

Shepard's brows rose. "I scare the piss out of you?"

"In the nicest possible way, I assure you."

**-ooo-**

There was another ugly fight when they reached the area around the holding caves. As before, the enemy was comprised mostly of fighters, with a few robed magic users among them.

They stood about as much chance against the squad as the last batch. Shepard had adjusted the sensitivity on her kinetic barriers again, and was pleased to find that they now recoiled against most slashing and stabbing attacks. She was not so sure about the great, slow sweeps of massive mauls and great axes, and she had no intention of testing that particular scenario.

"Another bit of frayed rope?" Isabela complained, looking up from a corpse and throwing a bit of twisted hemp aside in disgust. "Honestly, the magisters need to pay their people better."

Hawke glanced up from picking a lock on a rather ornate chest. "I don't think the magisters like to pay their employees at all. They seem to prefer free labor."

"These are mercenaries, Hawke," the pirate argued. "Mercenaries _always_ expect to be paid."

"And you get what you pay for," Varric added. "Which is why they are now _former_ mercenaries."

Hawke quickly sorted through the chest's contents. "You may be right," she conceded, tossing a small glass vial to Varric, who caught it neatly. "There's hardly enough here to be worth the bother, really."

Fenris was waiting with badly concealed impatience at the mouth of the cave system's entrance. He flashed a look of concern at Hawke as she approached.

"We must be careful," he said pensively. "There were many such holdings once, especially in the mountains where individual slavers kept private pens. They were designed to protect against raids by fellow slavers. No doubt it's why Hadriana chose this place."

Hawke's surprise showed on her face. "Do slavers attack each other often?"

Fenris' expression was grimly amused. "They did. What better way to find slaves than steal them?"

His eyes hardened. "The holding pens outside of Tevinter have mostly been abandoned, but they still exist."

Hawke gave him a sympathetic glance. "Hadriana won't escape us, Fenris" she vowed.

The muscles on the elf's jaw bunched. "Let's hope this isn't a waste of time…"

**-ooo-**

The interior of the cave system was no longer bare stone, but carefully worked walls with heavy iron bars and cagework. They had gone no further than the room at end of the entry corridor before finding their first corpse.

The dead man - a middle-aged elf with dark hair just beginning to be sprinkled by grey - was sprawled out on a heavy wooden table with deep grooves cut in the sides. His throat and wrists had been sliced open, the former from ear to ear and the latter from palm to forearm.

"Andraste's arse!" breathed Isabela.

"What the _fuck_!" exclaimed Shepard.

"Poor sod," muttered Varric.

"Who _does_ something like this?" demanded Hawke.

"See for yourself," Fenris grated. "The legacy of the magisters."

Hawke looked down at the man with pity. "They kill the slaves for their blood?"

"In a society where mages rule, they find many ways to justify their need for power."

"Whoever did this needs to be stopped," Shepard ground out. "_Permanently_."

"I agree," Hawke's eyes blazed dangerously. She reached forward and gently closed the slave's open eyes.

They passed through the room quickly. There was a brief struggle in the corridor beyond with the magister's guards, but the men were easily dispatched. What rose from the floor to replace them, however…

"What the shit?" Shepard backed away from the nearest lurching figure.

_Husks?_ No… these were completely organic. And rotting.

_You have got to be shitting me. Zombies?_

Shepard's surprise was momentary. Whatever they were, they were going to die. Again, if necessary.

With a guttural cry, she brought her omni-blade in a huge, backhanded arc, nearly decapitating one of the skeletal attackers.

"Archers on your six, Hawke," she called, throwing a blast their way. Huge jets of flame suddenly spouted from the walls, cutting the squad off from the ranged attackers.

"On my what?" the rogue responded, driving both daggers into a skeletal back.

"Don't you… oh, nevermind," Shepard parried a swipe from one of the skeletal warriors with her right arm, watching the blade recoil off of her shields, and gutted the creature. "Varric, can your bolts get through the flame?"

"Varric?" Shepard glanced around when the dwarf failed to answer and saw him slumped to the floor some distance away.

She swore. Hawke was already running for the end of the corridor and the jets, leaping and flipping through the flames like a hare.

Bracing herself, Shepard sprinted after the rogue, choosing to try sliding under the fire rather than leaping over or simply ducking through.

Luckily, the jets were not as wide as Shepard had feared. Hawke was trying to fend off one skeletal warrior while the other continued to fire arrows at point blank range. Shepard rose like a vengeful spirit, catching the creature's bow arm with her blade and severing it completely. Her right forearm arced up and over, elbow leading, and slammed into the thing's skull, shattering it.

Hawke ducked sideways under an overhand sword blow, crossing her daggers and coming up inside her opponent's guard. She thrust forward with the blades and pulled them apart, removing its head with an inappropriate kind of popping noise.

She pointed to the floor with the tip of a dagger. "Pressure plates," she panted. "Let's get the bodies off of them, and that should stop the flames."

They dragged the re-deceased corpses away from the pressure plates and waited. After a moment, there was a dull clunking noise and the jets stopped.

Isabela was looting bodies, as usual. Fenris was helping Varric to his feet. Thankfully, the dwarf appeared to be in one piece.

"Dear Varric," the dwarf muttered as he rubbed one hand over the back of his neck. "Please learn to parry. Love, your innards."

Shepard swiped her forearm across her forehead. The heat from the fire had not improved her perspiration level any. She was now wearing several pounds of sweat-soaked leather. Drell, she recalled, did not sweat like humans. Otherwise, she suspected, their fondness for supple leather armor would evaporate faster than the sweat on her skin.

They were ambushed in the following room, and the next. Despite an impressive goose egg and what had to be a raging headache, Varric was in fine form, skewering a robed mage to the wall behind and firing a bundle of arrows loosely contained in a sabot that burst apart and scattered the bolts through the enemy fighters.

It was in the second room that they found a young elven woman cowering in a corner.

"Are you hurt?" Fenris demanded. "Did they touch you?" Despite the harshness of his words, his hands were gentle as he helped the woman to her feet.

She turned huge, bewildered eyes on them. "They've been killing everyone!" she cried. "They cut papa, bled him…"

"Why? Why would they do this?"

The elf's eyes locked on Fenris. "The magister…" the girl whispered, "she said she needed power, that someone was coming to kill her."

Fenris' eyes looked stricken, but the girl seemed not to notice. "We tried to be good," she said adamantly. "We did everything were were told." The huge eyes were full of anguished confusion. "She loved papa's soup! I don't understand!"

Hawke's gaze was full of pity for the girl. "This has been terrible for you," she said softly.

"Everything was fine until today," the girl was in a state of shock, unable even to cry.

"It wasn't," Fenris murmured gently. "You just didn't know any better."

"Are you my master now?" she asked Fenris shyly.

"No!" The elf's hands came up, almost as if to ward off a blow.

"But I can cook," the girl insisted. "I can clean." She looked hopeless. "What else will I do?"

"If you go to Kirkwall," said Hawke, compassion softening her expression, "I can help you."

The elven girl's eyes strayed to Hawke for the first time. "Yes? Oh, praise the maker! Thank you."

"Can you make it that far on your own?"

"Yes, I think I can make it that far. I can try. Oh, thank you." The girl darted away, as if afraid that Hawke would somehow change her mind.

Fenris rounded on the rogue. "I didn't realize you were in the market for a slave," he snarled.

Hawke blinked at him, dumbfounded. "I gave her a _job_, Fenris," she explained slowly, as if to a child.

Fenris' body twitched. "Ah," he said uncomfortably. "Then, that's good. My apologies. Let's find Hadriana and be done with this place."

He turned away from Hawke and stalked off. The rogue stared after him with an unreadable expression. Then she gave a small sigh and turned to the rest of the squad.

"You heard him. Let's finish this and get out of here. I, for one, could use a drink."

**-ooo-**

_Now I know why Hawke and Anders seem so unperturbed by weirdness. They deal with it all the time…_

Their fight with the magister involved more creepiness than Shepard had hoped to see ever again. She'd fought cannibals, marauders and banshees, and she'd sort of assumed that nothing in this place could hold a candle to Reaper insanity.

But it looked as though Thedas was going to give it the good old college try.

Some of the things the magister called up were creatures of smoke and shadow whose touch was like oily darkness on your soul. And there were more of the animated corpses as well, which reminded Shepard all too much of husks, except they were armed and smelled of corruption and decay.

Finally, Hadriana lay on the ground, tumbled there by a furious backhanded blow from Fenris. She panted, desperate eyes on her staff where it had fallen, more than a meter away.

Fenris stepped between her and it, drawing his massive sword back for the death blow.

"Stop!" she cried in a low voice. "You do not want me dead!"

Fenris bared his teeth. "There is only one person I want dead more."

The woman held up a hand. "I have information, elf," she said urgently. "And I will trade it in exchange for my life."

"Ha! The location of Danarius?" The elf's voice held a hint of mockery. "What good would that do me?" His lips quirked in a dark parody of a grin, and he drew the sword back a little farther. "I'd rather he lose his pet pupil."

Fear flooded the woman's face. "You have a sister," she blurted. "She is alive." Catching the elf's momentary hesitation, she continued quickly. "You wish to reclaim your life? Let me go and I will tell you where she is."

Fenris' eyes flickered briefly to Hawke.

"This is your call," she assured him.

Slowly, Fenris lowered his sword, then replaced it on his back. He leaned forward and down, bringing his face level with the magister's.

"So I have your word?" Hadriana asked huskily, relief coloring her voice. "I tell you, and you let me go?"

Fenris locked eyes with her. "Yes," he said slowly. "You have my word."

The magister let out a breath. "Her name is Varania. She is in Qarinus, serving a magister by the name of Aramit."

"A servant?" Fenris demanded. "Not a slave?"

Hadriana gave a tiny shake of her head. "She is not a slave."

The elf held her eyes for a few moments more. "I believe you," he murmured, drawing his right hand back. His hand and arm flared with a silver-blue corona, and his fist shot forward, into the magister's chest.

She stared down at Fenris' hand, buried deep in her flesh, with horror. A small gasp left her, and Fenris yanked his hand free, a lump of red muscle clenched in his grasp.

Her heart.

_Fuck. Just… __**fuck**__. _Shepard gaped as the elf dropped the organ, the glow dying.

"We are done here," he stated flatly.

_One of these days, Shepard, your luck - good _and_ bad - is going to run out._

Hawke followed after Fenris as he turned away from the magister's corpse and paced a few steps away, muscles bunching under his armor.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she hazarded.

"No, I do not want to talk about it!" the elf snapped, rounding on her. "This could be a trap. Danarius could have sent Hadriana here to tell me about this sister. Even if he didn't, trying to find her would still be suicide." Fenris gestured sharply. "Danarius has to know about her and has to know that Hadriana knows. But all that matters," his voice dropped into a low growl, "is that I finally got to crush this bitch's heart…" He turned away from Hawke abruptly, his head bowed, "…may she rot and all the other mages with her."

Reaching out gently, Hawke laid a hand on the elf's shoulder. "Maybe we should leave," she suggested.

Fenris shrugged her hand off roughly. "Don't comfort me."

He glanced over his shoulder at the rogue. "You saw what was done here. There is always going to be some reason, some excuse, why mages need to do this. Even if I found my sister, who knows what the magisters have done to her?" He looked away, his face contorting with bitterness. "What has magic touched that it doesn't spoil?"

For a moment he hesitated, rubbing his forehead with blood-soaked fingers. "I… need to go," he murmured, almost inaudibly.

He left without looking back.


	12. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

Shepard stared into her mug. "The beer here is piss," she said sadly.

"True," nodded Hawke.

"It beats the whiskey," Isabela commented. "And it gets you drunk, though not as fast."

She paused. "I prefer the whiskey."

The four of them were in Varric's suite at the Hanged Man, and had been for some few hours. After the elf's abrupt departure, the remaining squad had returned to the Wounded Coast and their tasks. Upon their arrival back in Kirkwall, Hawke made the command decision to hold the debrief in the tavern, over alcohol. Lots of alcohol.

"I'd hoped that being around mages outside of the Imperium would help Fenris get past some of this hate," Hawke had muttered after downing the larger part of her first mug.

"In that case," Varric had answered, "you might have done better not to pick an abomination and a blood mage."

"Anders isn't really an abomination. He's just… _possessed_. Slightly. By a ruthlessly driven spirit of justice," Hawke had argued, not very successfully. "And Merrill is only _sort of_ a blood mage. I mean, the worst she's ever done is wander into other people's gardens and picked their flowers."

"I need to be drunk," Shepard had interrupted flatly. "The sooner, the better."

"That's the most rational thing anyone's said in hours," Isabela had agreed.

After that, the focus was entirely on the beer.

**-ooo-**

And now, Shepard was drunk. Wonderfully, gloriously drunk. She hadn't been this overwhelmingly intoxicated in what seemed like forever. Not since she'd brought both her team and her crew back through the Omega 4 relay safely, and they'd taken over the VIP room at Afterlife under Aria T'Loak's watchful eye while the worst of the Normandy's hull breaches were patched. Looking back, Shepard was pretty sure she'd been drunk for _days_.

Shepard just wished the beer here tasted better. So, at Isabela's urging, she'd decided to try the whiskey.

Isabela was right about it. It _was_ worse than the beer. But - and Isabela was right about this part, too - it got you _drunker_,_** faster**_.

Shepard laughed, and tried to focus on Varric. The dwarf's face swam maddeningly in and out of her vision.

"I swear, I might have thought about it a little bit more if I'd have known," she assured him.

"_Might_ have?" Varric chuckled.

Shepard frowned. Tried to frown. She couldn't really feel her face, so she wasn't sure she was successful. "It needed to happen. I just… might've… kept his hands where I could see them. Or something."

_Speaking of hands where I can see them…_

"Isabela," she slurred, "is that your hand on my leg? Why is your hand on my leg? I think it's _my_ leg. Somebody's leg, anyway."

"_Isabela!_" chided Hawke. Shepard was impressed by the rogue's enunciation. Then again, Hawke hadn't been sampling the dubious whiskey for the past few hours.

"What?" said the pirate. She leaned closer to Shepard, "Would you rather I put my hands someplace else?" she purred seductively.

"Yes."

The dusky rogue leaned even closer, her full lips inches from Shepard's. "And where is that, sweet thing?" she breathed.

"Down on the bar, getting me another drink."

Varric and Hawke both burst out laughing. Isabela pouted, but got to her feet, swaying slightly. "I'll be right back, sweet thing," she declared, weaving her way to the door of the suite.

"Fifty silver says she doesn't make it back," Varric offered.

"Done," said Hawke.

"Why am I so drunk?" Shepard demanded. "While you two are not." She drew herself up with effort. "I happen to have a progig… progid…" she ground her teeth together, "_prodigious_ capacity for alcohol."

Varric grinned slyly. "Maybe our alcohol is more alcoholic than yours."

Shepard gave this due consideration. "No," she said finally. "I don't think that's it."

"Well," Hawke pointed out, "you did say you wanted to be drunk. Perhaps you're just better at it than you thought."

The Spectre mulled this one over as well.

"Maybe. I can be awfully persnis… perstis… determined." She looked up proudly. "I'm motherfucking _Commander_ _Shepard, _Systems Alliance Navy, and a _god-damn_ Council Spectre."

She pointed to the collar of the banded leather jacket. "See this?"

Hawke and Varric shared a grin. "Your neck?" asked Varric. "Yeah, we see it."

"No. _This_," Shepard stabbed at her collarbone with one finger. "N-_fucking_-7."

"Sure," Hawke agreed, her grin threatening to split her face. "How could we miss it?"

"Right," said Shepard, mollified. She settled back in her chair and folded her arms.

"So," prompted Varric, after a moment's silence. "What does it mean?"

"What does what mean?"

"N-fucking-7."

"Damn right." Shepard nodded emphatically.

"Yes," said Varric patiently, "but what does that _mean_?"

Shepard slapped her palms on the table, her lips pulled back from her teeth and a glint in her glassy eyes. 'It means kicking ass and taking names!" she roared. "It means doing the job that is in front of you, no matter the cost! Even when nobody listens to you!" her voice trailed off. "Even when they take away your ship and relieve you of command, the bastards!" Shepard smacked the table again. "It means you _hold…the…line_!"

She swayed for a moment, then pitched forward onto the table.

The two remaining rogues roared with laughter.

"_Hold…the…line…_" gasped Varric. "Priceless!"

"We need to get her drunk more often," Hawke agreed. "And you thought she'd be nothing but trouble."

"No," Varric disagreed, "I just said trouble. Not 'nothing but trouble'."

"Semantics."

"Hawke," Varric pointed out, "today she slammed the glowy elf against a cliff and threatened to beat the shit out of him. _After_ making him do magic. Whether or not she knew about the magical fisty thing, I think that just about defines _trouble_."

"I hope Fenris is okay," Hawke worried.

"He's a prickly ball of angst," Varric rolled his eyes. "He's _never_ going to be okay."

Hawke sighed. "Help me get Shepard into bed. Then I'd better get back to the estate. We can go see Sol and the qunari in the morning."

"Excuse me? Bed?" Varric blinked owlishly. "There only happens to be one bed in the vicinity, and it's mine."

Hawke smiled winningly at him. "And just think, you can tell Isabela you slept with Shepard. _Imagine_ how jealous she'll be."

"This is against my better judgment, you know."

"Noted."

**-ooo-**

Shepard came back to herself slowly. She could hear the rasping of soft snores, and a heartbeat that wasn't hers. For a moment, she wriggled contentedly, snuggling against the body beneath her. Then two things occurred to her. First, the heartbeat was of the normal lub-dub variety, indicating that the heart doing the beating was even-chambered. Second, the chest under her cheek was covered with crisp hair, not silken scales. And - roaring up from out of nowhere as a belated third - she was hungover as shit.

She groaned, and opened her eyes.

She recognized the dim gloom of Varric's suite immediately. But that meant…

Shepard turned her head carefully, looking up into the broad features of the dwarf, relaxed in sleep. His blond hair was tousled, and Shepard could feel his large hand resting on her back. She was sprawled over his bare chest.

Panic gripped her gut until it occurred to her that she was still fully dressed, apart from her boots, greaves, and gauntlets.

Gingerly, she sat up, trying her best not to disturb the slumbering dwarf. She might as well have pounded an omni-blade into her skull. She groaned again, gripping her temples firmly to keep them from exploding.

The snores ended with a snort, and Varric opened his eyes sleepily.

"Mmm. Shepard. You okay?"

"I wish I'd stayed dead."

"We probably shouldn't have let you try the swill."

"I would destroy another system for indoor plumbing right now," Shepard muttered. "Happily," she added. "No regrets."

Varric watched her sympathetically. "Tell you what," he offered. "There's one bath house here in Lowtown that's decent. Take some coin from that pouch on the table and go there. Soak up some steam, then take a cold plunge. You'll feel better. But first, stop by the bar downstairs and ask Corff for his hangover cure. It's wicked, but effective."

"This had better not be some kind of Kirkwall hazing ritual," Shepard threatened weakly. "If it is, I swear disproportionate retribution on your ass when I can finally leave the bucket."

"Trust me, Shepard."

"I have no choice. My only other option involves shooting myself in the head."

"Good girl. Now get out of here. Corff can tell you how to get to the bath house. I'm going back to sleep."

Shepard got to her feet rather shakily, tottering on rubbery legs to the table. She picked at the knots on the pouch for a moment before giving up and swiping the whole bag, tucking it into her belt. Her greaves and gauntlets were on a chair, her boots next to it. Shepard tucked the gauntlets into her belt next to the pouch, steeled herself, and bent over to retrieve her boots.

_**This**__ is why we don't drink alcohol that tastes like it was distilled in a krogan's ass, Shepard._

Shepard waited for the roaring and thumping in her head to die down and the spots to clear from her vision before picking up her greaves. The thought of attempting to actually put on either article now in her possession was more than Shepard could bear in her delicate condition, so, trying not to feel like she was performing the walk of shame, she tucked them under her arm and made her way down the stairs to the bar.

Corff took one look at her and shook his head. "Shouldn't have tried the whiskey," he advised.

Shepard winced. "Varric says there's a decent bath house near here," she muttered. "Also, I'm supposed to ask you for your hangover cure."

The bartender nodded. "Blood of the mabari," he said. "You want it strong, or extra strong?"

Shepard stared at him blearily.

"Extra strong it is." The man turned and began assembling ingredients. "Norah," he called, making Shepard squint and grab her head, "get the kettle on, will you? And for Maker's sake hurry. Otherwise," he eyed Shepard with resignation, "you'll be cleaning the bar…"

**-ooo-**

Shepard shielded her eyes with one hand and glanced around the alleyway. She must have taken a wrong turning somewhere. Corff was one of those people who believed in giving unhelpfully detailed directions involving more landmarks than any one person could possibly remember, particularly when that one person was suffering from a hangover brought on by extremely questionable libations.

The blood of the mabari had reminded Shepard of a cross between coffee and vindaloo, and felt as though it had removed all the skin from the inside of her throat. Luckily, this meant her tastebuds had been burnt off within the first two cautious sips, rendering her immune to the taste. Surprisingly, it had settled her stomach and taken the edge off the pounding in her skull.

She was just wondering what Anders' healing magic could do for the daughter of all hangovers when a deep voice from behind her caused her to jump and spin.

"Basra."

One of the qunari stood there, wearing what Shepard now realized was the default qunari expression of solid _nothing_.

"You think you might… I don't know… clear your throat or something first, next time?" she complained.

"You allowed yourself to be surprised," he responded, with a hint of disapproval.

Shepard bridled. "I'm a little… indisposed… this morning," she explained.

"You will come with me."

"What? Didn't you hear me? I'm feeling slightly unwell this morning." Shepard frowned and rubbed her head. "Make that _really_ unwell."

The giant raised his brow. _And?_… the motion seemed to say.

Shepard thought of all the steps she'd have to navigate to get down to the qunari compound and groaned.

"Look, couldn't I make an appointment to come by later? I was on my way to the bath house to get cleaned up."

The qunari tipped his head slightly. "There are no bath houses in this area," he said levelly.

_Damn. I knew I made a mistake somewhere._

"Okay. _Much_ later," she sighed. "After I search all of Lowtown for the damn bath house."

"No."

Shepard threw her hands in the air, causing her head to spin unpleasantly. "Do you have _any idea_ how annoying that is?"

The faintest suggestion of smugness crept into his voice. "I do not care."

Shepard's eyes narrowed. She really didn't have the patience for this. "How 'bout this: do you have any idea _how satisfying_ it would be to kick you in the balls right now?"

The giant's eyes narrowed, but to his credit, his wide-legged stance did not so much as flinch. "I would not recommend it, basra."

_At least that got a response_.

"Give me an hour," Shepard insisted.

"The Arishok does not wait for bas."

"Maybe he should learn," Shepard growled stubbornly.

"No," he said calmly. "You will be the one to learn, basra." His gaze traveled over her. "Do you require assistance?"

Shepard lifted her head arrogantly. "Fuck no."

"Then come." Without looking back to see if she was following, the giant ox-man turned and stalked out of the alley.

**-ooo-**

_I'd rather do that whole salarian-turian-krogan summit thing again than go down those stairs_.

Shepard was many things, but a coward wasn't one of them. Still, it took her everything she had not to turn around when the qunari in front of her began his descent. She suspected that curing the genophage was going to wind up being easier than keeping the contents of her stomach from decorating the stairwell before she was halfway down.

_I'd rather fight three banshees with one of those shitty Saturday Night Specials from Elkoss Combine and only five remaining thermal clips than go down these stairs._

Nevertheless, she took two steps down.

_I'd rather fight a dozen cannibals with one of James' boots than go down these stairs._

Five more steps.

_I'd rather make sweet, sweet love with the Illusive Man than go down these stairs._

Ten steps.

_I'd rather fight three banshees, a dozen cannibals, _and_ a marauder, armed _only_ with James' boot, _**while**_ making sweet, sweet love with the Illusive Man…_

Fifteen. She gritted her teeth.

_With Wrex giving a play-by-play analysis of the whole thing…_

Another fifteen.

_And Mordin reminding me not to _ingest_…_

Ten.

_On live newsfeed_…

Five.

_Than go down these stairs._

Shepard looked around dully, only belatedly realizing that there were no more stairs. Her escort was waiting for her, arms crossed, something bordering an actual expression on his face. It was probably disgust. She was trembling and sweating like a horse, but she was alive and she hadn't thrown up yet.

_Commander Shepard, savior of the galaxy and master of all hangovers._

With as much of her normal purposeful gait as she could muster, Shepard strode past her escort and up the handful of steps to the qunari gate.

She gave the guard a stiff little jerk of her head that she hoped looked more like _open the gates, qunari_ than _oh god, I think I might puke_. Either way, it did the trick.

She made a spirited attempt at sweeping through the compound, cursing her pride with every jarring footfall. Behind her, she could vaguely sense her escort following along easily. Shepard ground her teeth when she realized that he probably wasn't even stretching his stride to keep pace with her.

She halted at the foot of the steps where the Arishok's bench sat like a throne, glaring up at the giant with what she knew must be fiercely bloodshot eyes.

"Well?" she demanded.

"I have considered your request, basra." The Arishok was clearly not one to waste words in idle greetings.

Shepard folded her arms on her chest. "And?"

"It is not my role to instruct you in the ways of the Qun."

Anger caused the pain in Shepard's head to go critical. "You dragged me down here…" she began, seethingly.

The Arishok raised a hand, silencing her. "However," he continued, "you are not the first to request such."

He stood and took the stairs slowly, his eyes fixed on Shepard's. "We did not come with this intent, yet still they come, these kabethari, seeking certainty." He stopped, perhaps less than half a meter from Shepard. "As do you."

Shepard was keenly aware of the picture they made; she unwashed in her filthy armor, weak and sick from the hangover, swaying slightly on her feet as she glared up at him defiantly, and him, gleaming bronze-toned skin and crisp red lines under his polished and oiled armor, exuding composure and leashed power, staring down at her with undisguised contempt.

"I came seeking _information_, not _certainty_," she retorted.

"The purpose is the same."

"No, it isn't." Shepard thrust out her jaw pugnaciously. "Information can be right or wrong. It is simply data that is collected. Certainty implies something… greater."

"Yes," the Arishok agreed. He raised a brow at her. "Do you not seek something greater?"

_Ah, __**shit**__. I'm too fucked up to deal with this right now._

"Yes," she replied honestly. "I want a long, hot shower, with soap that doesn't smell like a rancid varren, in an honest-to-god bathroom with a sink and a mirror and a toilet that actually flushes. And a towel. I don't even care if it's military issue."

She sat down suddenly, wobbly legs refusing to hold her weight in the same way her brain was refusing to hold her thoughts.

"And while we're at it, I'd like to know that all the sacrifices I've made over the past three years actually _meant_ something. I want to know that I stopped the Reapers, that I saved everything and everyone I possibly could. That my crew is alive, and safe, and unharmed. That I made the right decisions for everybody."

Shepard squinted up at the giant. "And I won't get any of it," she said simply. "There is no certainty, Arishok. Only the illusion of certainty."

To her surprise, the huge creature dropped to his haunches, taking a long, thoughtful look at her. His nostrils flared slightly. She didn't blame him. Shepard suspected that she smelled pretty foul.

"You are intoxicated."

"No," she corrected. "I am hung over. _Last night_ I was intoxicated."

The Arishok made a rumble of disapproval. "Why would you do this to yourself?"

Shepard shrugged ruefully. "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

"The _selfishness_… You make yourself sick with drink and lack of food; wallow in your own filth and misery, and yet you would deny the Qun with your wasted breath!"

"Yeah, well, if your little errand boy had given me a chance to find the damn bath house, some clean clothes, and some breakfast, maybe I wouldn't be sitting here offending your exalted qun-ness with my selfishly hungover presence," Shepard snapped weakly.

"Le…"

"Yeah, yeah," Shepard interrupted him with a gesture. "I know." She marshaled her best Arishok impression, "Leave, now."

She pushed her hands under her legs and forced herself to her feet. "Next time," she suggested wearily, "just give me an appointment time."

The Arishok continued to regard her intently. As he rose to his feet in a single graceful motion, he spoke a few words in his own language to the soldier who'd served as her escort. Shepard was not particularly surprised when the latter took her arm, gently but very firmly, and began to lead her away.

"I thought getting _down_ all those steps was hard," she sighed. "Now I have to climb back _up_. Fuck."

After a moment, she realized that she was not being led to the gate, but deeper into the compound. "Wait. Where are we going?"

"You wished to bathe, human. You will be given the opportunity."

"What? Why?"

He threw a glance over his shoulder at her.

_Yeah, Shepard. Like he cares. The CO just gave him a direct order, _that's_ why._

She huffed quietly and concentrated on setting her feet down as softly as she could, in the hopes that her brain would not start leaking out her ears.

Her escort stopped before a wide, clear area at the intersection of two walls. Two huge, copper-bottomed wooden cisterns stood about a meter off the ground, while underneath them flames were being tended in neatly contained fire boxes. Two additional copper cisterns stood at either side of the entrance, looking suspiciously like hot water boilers. Within the area were several elves and qunari, some engaged in tending fires, and some…

_Shepard, you're staring._

Shepard had loved Thane with every ounce of her being. She'd begrudged every minute of her incarceration - not simply because it kept her from being able to _do_ anything about the Reaper's inevitable invasion, but because it robbed her of precious time with her lover. That being said, she was still a woman, and she'd never been able to keep herself from speculating just what her spectacularly muscled personal guard's body would look like out of uniform.

_Jimmy Vega, eat your heart out._

She swallowed with difficulty. "I don't suppose you have a separate ladies', do you?" she asked wryly.

The soldier shook his head. "Supplies are there," he pointed. "I will wait."

Shepard sighed. But she was a soldier. Shit, piss, and shower; soldiers learned to do what they could, when they could, no matter the company.

She began unbuckling her armor as she walked to where the supplies were located, noting that there seemed to be individual bathing stations arranged in orderly rows. Each station consisted of a bench and a bucket on a slatted wooden mat, next to a drain hole. Roughly woven baskets appeared to be available for both clean and soiled clothing.

At the supply station, small pots were arranged on a shelf next to baskets of what Shepard was surprised to discover were almost towels - large squares of cottony material. She took two, and pointed at the line of jars.

"Soap?" she asked a nearby elf.

He looked startled, but replied politely in a soft voice. "Brown jars. The tan ones are salve; the white ones, muscle balm."

Shepard grabbed a brown jar. "Thanks."

She selected an empty bench, set down her towels and soap, and tossed her boots and greaves into a basket before trudging to the boilers for a bucket of hot water. When she'd brought it back to her bathing station, she unfastened her vambraces and added them to the basket, then her dagger and omni-tool, and finally she peeled herself out of the leather garments. With a grimace of distaste, Shepard considered the fact that she'd have to put them back on dirty - there were no sonic cleaning chambers here to remove the battlefield grime.

_Another reason this place smells like Omega on the day the air scrubbers malfunctioned._

Shepard tossed the last of her armor aside and grabbed the bucket of steaming water with a grunt, lifting it over her head with arms that still trembled slightly. Slowly, she tipped the bucket, raising her face as the blessedly hot water poured out and cascaded over her skin. When at last the bucket was empty, she set it down, wishing she had an unlimited supply, and eased the cork stopper out of the jar.

A pleasant, lemony fragrance came from the thick white paste within. Eagerly, Shepard dug her fingers into the goo, inhaling deeply as she rubbed the stuff into her greasy hair and down her arms. She scrubbed her scalp vigorously, then her shoulders, belly and what she could reach of her back, and dipped back into the jar for more before moving on to her crotch, ass, and legs, wiggling her toes as her soapy fingers rubbed between them.

It felt _wonderful_.

Shepard hefted the bucket of cold water that waited by the bench and dumped it over her head, gasping at the shock. Her skin immediately broke out in gooseflesh, her nipples hardening to little pebbles, but she felt her head clear somewhat. She stared down at the two empty buckets and, unconcernedly naked and dripping lightly sudsy water, went back to the boilers for more.

She cast a wistful look at the copper-bottomed wooden cisterns - soaking tubs, she realized - while she toweled herself dry, having at last divested herself of the last of the soap and grime. As much as the thought of a long, hot soak sounded completely delicious, Shepard regretfully acknowledged that she should not keep either her escort or the Arishok waiting for any longer than necessary. She may not appreciate his stubborn arrogance, but the impressively horned giant had definitely earned himself a favor by letting her use their baths.

As she gazed down at her filthy armor in resignation, a basket was thrust into her arms. Blinking in surprise, Shepard glanced up into the face of her escort.

"You will wish to clean your armor," he said. Shepard was not sure if it was a question or a statement, but she answered anyway.

"Yes."

She looked into the basket. Inside were a wrapped smock and some loose pants. She smiled gratefully.

"Thank you."

Shepard placed the basket on the bench and quickly began to dress, feeling the soldier's eyes on her.

"You have many scars," he noted.

She shrugged. "I've been in a lot of fights."

"Humans are aggressive when they mate." His voice was calm, stating a fact, yet Shepard thought she caught the faintest hint of… approval, maybe.

"I said fights," Shepard corrected with a little grin. "Battle, not mating."

His brow furrowed. "You are female," he said.

"Females are soldiers, where I come from," she answered. "I am a soldier, like you."

This clearly did not meet with approval. "No. You are not."

Shepard nodded sagely, while her grin widened. "You're right, of course," she told him, lifting the basket with her dirty armor and settling it on her hip. "_I'm_ a commander," she said as she strode past him. "I _outrank_ you."

**-ooo-**

"Morning, Varric," Hawke said cheerfully, dropping onto the edge of the dwarf's bed. "Where's Shepard?"

Varric cracked open an eye. "Is this any time of morning to be so annoyingly chipper?"

"It's nearly midday, Varric," Hawke scolded.

"Is it?" The dwarf rubbed his sleep-filled eyes and yawned, casting his gaze around the room. "Where's Shepard?"

"I don't know. Didn't I just ask you?"

Varric frowned. "Sent her to the bath house early this morning. She looked like shit." He swung his legs off the bed and reached for his boots. "You don't think something's happened to her, do you?"

"This is Kirkwall, Varric."

Varric paused in tugging on his left boot. "You're right. Do you think she happened to something?"

"Varric."

"She shoots fireballs and wields a blade that can cut through armor like butter. And she has a temper that's shorter than a nug's asshole. What could possibly happen to her?"

"Varric."

"She's probably back at Blondie's. You said they were getting _friendly_…"

Hawke crossed her arms. "I said they were _flirting_. That's not the same. Besides," the rogue's deft fingers flicked out and captured a long, dark strand nestled among his golden chest hair, "it appears you allowed her to use you as a pillow last night, my dear dwarf."

Varric sighed. "Oh, all right. I'll put the word out. Happy?"

Hawke gave him her most infectious smile. "Yes."

"Is that all you came down here to do? Wake me up rather unceremoniously?" Varric pulled a fresh shirt over his head and began belting it with a sash.

"I can think of other ways I'd prefer to wake you up," Hawke leered. "But I really came down to collect Shepard. I thought it would be a good idea to take her with me over to the Gallows."

"Why would you think it a good idea to drag anyone over there? It's a miserable, depressing place filled with self-righteous men in steel and skirts."

Hawke gave him an amused look. "Yeeess, but I thought it might not be a bad idea to warn Shepard. Anders says she knows nothing about the Circle or the Templars. I don't know if that technology of hers is magic or not, but I'm betting that the Templars won't care either way."

Varric nodded. "You're probably right. To a Templar, a fireball is a fireball. Shepard shoots one off in front of the wrong crowd, and she's looking at a whole lot of Holy Smiting." He suddenly felt a growing sense of unease. "Let's go down and talk to Corff, shall we? Maybe he can tell us where our _N-fucking-7_ has gone off to." His eyes noted the empty tabletop and he groaned.

"With my coin purse…"

**-ooo-**

Shepard was surprised when her escort returned her not to the Arishok's throne area, but to a neat, unassuming tent. The inside of the tent was filled with books and scrolls and a very heavy table that took up the vast majority of the floorspace. Behind the table sat the horned giant himself, features typically impassive as he read from a large tome. A stool had been placed opposite him; on the table before it, a bowl and mug.

The soldier spoke a few words to his commander, taking Shepard's basket from her and setting it on the floor just inside the flap before leaving the tent.

The Arishok's odd golden eyes looked up from his text, and he regarded Shepard silently. Trying to bury the awkward urge to salute, Shepard took up parade rest and inclined her head deeply.

"Thank you for the use of your bathing facilities, Arishok," she said formally. "Your… hospitality… is greatly appreciated."

He continued to study her for some moments. Shepard did not move and did not break eye contact.

"Eat," he said finally, gesturing briefly to the stool and its solitary place setting.

Shepard inclined her head again before breaking parade rest and settling herself on the stool.

The bowl contained some kind of thick oatmeal; the mug was filled with strong, fragrant black tea. Without any further urging, Shepard began to empty both.

The Arishok's eyes did not leave her.

"You are not like the other bas of this city," he said. "Not even your friend serah Hawke."

Shepard swallowed a mouthful of tea before answering. "I told you, I am not from this city."

"Yes," the Arishok said. "I recall. You claimed you were not from Thedas at all."

"Yes." Shepard kept her attention on the food.

If she'd hoped to irritate him with her monosyllabic response, Shepard was disappointed.

"You are used to command, human. This is not something I expected in a bas."

"Yes."

"One of the ashaad reports that you encountered Tal-Vashoth on the Wounded Coast."

Shepard looked up sharply. She didn't realize that her movements - or, more likely, Hawke's movements - were being monitored. A heartbeat later, it occurred to her that they might not.

"We also encountered the remains of your patrol," she informed him quietly. "I'm sorry."

"The ashaad reported this as well," he replied. The loss of his men did not seem to affect him, or he had already dealt with it. Shepard suspected that it wouldn't be something he'd share with an outsider in any event.

"You fight well, I am told. And you speak as one who expects to be obeyed." The Arishok frowned. "I find myself curious."

Shepard smiled grimly. "Good."

Silence fell while Shepard finished the food and drink the Arishok had provided. Although she ignored it, Shepard was aware of his eyes on her the entire time. When she was done, she gently pushed the bowl to one side and met his stare.

"You will leave now, basra," he informed her curtly, rising. "When next we meet, I expect you to answer my questions."

Shepard quirked an eyebrow. "And I expect you to answer mine."

By the narrowing of his eyes, that was not the response the Arishok was looking for. Shepard gave him a diplomatic smile.

"Thank you again for your generosity, Arishok. I look forward to our next meeting."

"Panehedan, basra." The inscrutable expression was back again. Shepard bent to retrieve her basket of armor, pleased to find that the ache in her head no longer felt like a krogan tap-dancing on her white-hot brain, and paused in the tent flap, craning her neck to search the rooftops. She smiled when she saw a very noticeable silhouette against the sky, and very pointedly met the Arishok's eyes over her shoulder.

Without a word, she left, his eyes following after her.


	13. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

"Look at it this way, Hawke… no news is good news."

Hawke gave the dwarf a dubious look. "I'm not sure I follow your reasoning on that one, Varric."

"Come on, Hawke," Varric said pointedly. "This is _Shepard_ we're talking about. You've seen her. The only person I know who frightens me more in a fight is you."

Hawke couldn't help the grin that formed. "I thought Aveline scared the piss out of you."

"Yes, but she frightens me in a very _general_ sense. You frighten me _specifically_."

"You say the _nicest_ things to me, Varric," Hawke preened.

"My point," the dwarf continued, "is that if something untoward happened, there would be a body count. And there isn't, so it hasn't. She's probably just wandering Lowtown, lost."

The rogue frowned. "And that's supposed to ease my mind, is it?"

Varric sighed. "I knew I should have gotten another ball of twine…"

"Do you think we should check the docks?" Hawke wondered.

The dwarf considered this. "Nah," he said. "Nobody in their right mind would wander down those stairs by mistake."

"But you said she was in bad shape this morning. Maybe she wasn't thinking clearly."

"Trust me, nobody that hung over would voluntarily go down those stairs. I'm only mildly hung over, and the very thought of it makes me queasy."

"Point. We haven't checked that courtyard in the little alley off the market yet."

"The one with the creepy pelicans in it?"

"No, the one with the other creepy birds in it. Cormorants, I think."

"Ah, that one…"

**-ooo-**

Shepard hadn't gone more than ten meters before a thought struck her and she suddenly set her basket down and rummaged through it, coming up with her omni-tool. Like Omega, Kirkwall's cockroaches didn't necessarily hide from the light. It was a rule from her youth; _always go armed_.

She fastened the 'tool in place and set the basket back on her hip. Somewhere down here, she knew, would be an entrance to Darktown. Although she would never have believed it, Shepard was looking forward to her friendly cot in the healer's clinic. She'd spent more time there than anyplace else in Kirkwall.

It took her some time and a few coins to find someone willing to show her the Darktown entrance closest to the clinic, and what seemed an eternity trudging through stinking tunnels, but eventually Shepard spotted the large lantern hanging above the door. It was lit, indicating that Anders wasn't off with Hawke today or out completing his own errands, but inside tending the injured and sick among Kirkwall's poor.

She suppressed an urge to call out, _honey, I'm home_, as she came through the doorway. Anders was indeed within, and glanced up from where he was stitching a wound on an elderly man's shoulder.

"Shepard," he greeted her. "You're just in time. Could you give me a hand for a moment?"

"Sure." Shepard dropped her basket and went to the healer's side. "What can I do?"

"The wound is pulling, just here. Could you put some pressure - not too much…" he indicated the spot.

Shepard placed her hand as directed, and the edges of the wound ceased to gape. "Perfect," the healer murmured, resuming his slow task.

"Couldn't you use magic for this?" Shepard asked him curiously.

"Won't have none o' that nonsense, woman!" the old man snapped. "Maker gave us needle 'n' thread fer a reason!"

Anders caught her eye and gave her a look that said volumes. She bent her head to hide her grin.

"Shepard, you're blocking my light."

"Sorry," she apologized, shifting the angle of her head slightly. "Is that better?"

"Much."

"An' what kind o' name is _Shepard_ fer a woman?" the old man demanded. "Don't ye have another? Sommat delicate like?"

"I'm afraid I'm not a delicate woman, sir," Shepard bit her lip to keep from smiling.

"Don't ye ser me, woman. Do I look like a ser to ye? I'm just plain Ferd."

"Very well. I'm not a delicate woman, Ferd."

The old man snorted. "Yer tall, I'll gi' ye that. But yer no bigger 'round than a fence stake! Can't see ye dosin' a cow nor pullin' a plow as like." He snorted again. "Delicate!"

"Don't even think of moving your hand, Shepard," Anders warned her.

"Nope," Shepard said, although it wasn't clear whether she was speaking to Anders or to the obstreperous Ferd.

"So what is it, woman?" he pressed.

"Shepard _is_ my name, Ferd."

"Horseturds!"

Shepard laughed; a silvery peal that Anders would never have expected from her. "All right, you win," she said. "It's Catriona."

Ferd sniffed. "See. Knew it were delicate like."

Anders shot her an evil grin. "Just like the lady herself, serah Ferd."

"Watch it, healer," she warned. "I'll put my delicate foot up your ass."

Ferd nodded. "Ye got some fire t'ye, woman. Be ye married? Could use 'nother wife since me Aggie passed."

"Not the marrying type, either."

"Ye rather to be free t' follow what takes yer fancies, eh? Or _who_?" The old man gave a lecherous cackle.

"No. Not really. Just too busy."

Ferd gave her an incredulous look. "If ye ain't got a man, what is it ye got to be busy with? Ye ain't cookin' nor cleanin' nor raisin' babes."

Shepard smiled at the cantankerous old fart. "Killing, mostly."

Ferd laughed. "Pull the other one, woman! Never would ha' guessed ye fer a guard."

"Soldier."

"Yeah? An' what army? You one o' them dog lords - savin' yer presence, healer - or them blighted fancyknickers? Ye ain't got th' tongue nor their way o' speakin'."

"My homeland is far from here, Ferd. You wouldn't have heard of it."

"Try ol' Ferd. He knows more'n he looks. Even knows 'bout them dwarfs an' their big city. Ore's-hammer, they calls it. All underground. Big rivers o' burnin' stone, an' lyrium shinin' in the walls like starlight."

Shepard put her head on one side, her smile still faintly tugging the corners of her lips.

"Quite the cosmopolitan, aren't you?"

Ferd scowled. "No need fer callin' names, woman!"

She chuckled. "Well, then, Ferd. My home is named Normandy."

"Normandy, eh?" Ferd squinted his eyes. "Nope. Can't say I ever heard tell of it. Got good people, has it? Ye seem to be a good sort."

Anders glanced up to see Shepard's smile wobble and her face turn wistful. "Yeah," she said softly. "The best."

Ferd wasn't watching her face, but he must have heard something in her voice. "Homesick, are ye?"

"More than you can possibly imagine, Ferd."

"Cheer yerself, woman. Ye got friends here in Kirkwall, ain't ye? Ye got the healer, here, an' he ain't a bad sort fer all he's cursed with the magics."

"Thank you kindly, serah Ferd," Anders said lightly, straightening up and flexing his fingers to remove the cramp. "You can move your hand now, Shepard."

He reached over to the table next to him and brought up a jar of something that gave off a pungent odor, dipping a finger inside and coating the neat stitching with pale yellow goo. He wiped the excess on a cloth and began to bandage the shoulder.

"You'll need to keep this arm in a sling and avoid using it for several days. Keep the area clean and bandaged. Come back and see me in a few days so that I can check on the progress."

"Don't fuss so," the old man grumbled. "I ain't made o' glass, boy."

"Just so," Anders replied blandly. "Three days, serah Ferd."

"I hear ye, boy."

Anders helped the old man on with his shirt and gave him a length of bandage to use for a sling. When Ferd finally ambled through the doorway, Anders poured some water into a basin and scrubbed his hands, then wiped a wet palm over his face and hair.

"Five minutes," he complained. "It would have taken me _five minutes_ to heal that wound. And the old coot wouldn't have even had a scar to show for it." He sighed gustily. "He'll have had that sling off the moment he was out of sight of the door, too."

"Still," he said with a glint in his eye. "That old man got more out of you than I have." He pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Catriona," he tried the name on his tongue. "It suits you."

Shepard made a face. "I haven't gone by Catriona since my father died. Just _Shepard_ will do."

"Catriona Shepard of Normandy," the healer mused. He gave her a speculative look. "Ser Catriona Shepard of Normandy, perhaps?"

"Commander," she admitted. "Commander Shepard vas Normandy." That sad little smile lifted the corners of her lips again.

Anders quirked a brow. "Quite the title."

"Rank," Shepard corrected. "Solider, remember?"

"You fight dirty for a soldier," he commented, leaning his hip against the table. "And an officer at that."

"Wasn't always a soldier." Shepard grinned slyly, retrieving her basket of foul armor. "And I've been a soldier for a long time." She laughed. "Besides, shows what you know. Old soldiers _always_ fight dirty. That's why they're old."

"Because they haven't been killed…" The healer wore an odd expression, and one not entirely pleasant. "You remind me of some of the Wardens I knew in Amaranthine." He paused, and put his head on one side. "In a good way, I think."

"It wouldn't be the first time I reminded someone of something in a _bad_ way," Shepard said ruefully. "Would you happen to have any armor cleaner or soap or… _whatever_… for this," she lifted the basket slightly.

Anders smirked. "Working with Hawke can be a bit… messy… at times," he agreed. "I think I have something here somewhere. And I've got to go to the Lowtown market today anyway. I will find you some oil while I'm there."

Shepard flashed him a grateful smile. "Thanks, Anders." She fished in the basket momentarily, and tossed him a heavy coin purse. "Take what you need for the oil and for some food and then give the rest back to Varric."

Anders paused in the act of tucking the pouch in his robes. "You lifted Varric's purse?"

Shepard waved one hand negligently. "I was pretty hung over this morning. He offered to pay for a visit to the bath house. I think I was probably pretty ripe."

"I wondered why you smelled like bergamot," Anders admitted. "But coin for the baths isn't the same as _take what you need and give the rest back to Varric_, you know."

"I never made it to the baths, and I'm sure I can repay him somehow." She grinned wickedly. "He likes his cards. Maybe I'll teach him Skyllian Five, and then I'll _own_ his ass."

Anders looked puzzled. "If you never made it to the baths, how…"

"Evidently, I had an appointment with the Arishok that failed to make it on my scheduled tasks for the day."

"The Arishok? You bathed with the_ Arishok_?" Anders' voice cracked with disbelief.

"No! God, no!" Shepard said hastily. "It was more of a _bathe her and bring her to me_ sort of thing. I think my stench offended the qun."

"What doesn't offend the qun?"

"Rigid adherence to principle?" she suggested. "I think I successfully pissed him off."

"I think it's a fair bet to say he was probably pissed off before you came along."

Shepard conceded him the point. "All right. Pissed him off _more_."

"You must really have a death wish."

She shrugged. "I figure maybe I'll get better at it with practice."

Anders' brows leapt. "At which? Pissing off the Arishok, or dying?"

"Both."

**-ooo-**

Varric stared into his beer. Hawke stared into her beer. Isabela stared into space.

"What do you mean, you lost her?" Isabela demanded. "That would be like… like losing _Hawke_, Varric! You just don't misplace someone like that. It isn't possible."

"She's not anywhere in Lowtown, Isabela. We've checked," Hawke sighed. "Thoroughly."

"Well, then, check the docks. At some point, everything in Kirkwall ends up in the docks."

"Or Darktown," offered Varric.

"Or the Rose," admitted Hawke.

Anders raised his eyebrows as he approached the table. "When's the funeral?"

"What funeral?" asked Isabela sharply.

"I assumed from your faces that the elf finally managed to end his tortured existence," the healer said dryly. "I was considering offering a eulogy at his pyre."

"We lost Shepard," Varric shook his head guiltily. "My fault. I shouldn't have gone back to sleep."

"Sleep?" Isabela rounded on him. "You _didn't_, you little…"

"What did you expect, Rivaini? You left her all alone. And Hawke owes me fifty silver."

"Ah. Speaking of both Shepard and coin…" Anders withdrew a pouch from his tattered robe. "Yours, I believe?"

"Andraste's ass cheeks, Blondie!" Varric exclaimed. "You found Shepard?"

The mage shrugged. "She's at the clinic."

"I knew we should have checked there first. See, Hawke? What did I tell you?"

"I believe you implied that she and Anders were playing hide-the-staff," Hawke retorted. "But you're right that we probably should have checked with him before scouring the whole of Lowtown."

Anders looked amused. "She wasn't in Lowtown."

"Yeah, Blondie, we got that," Varric began.

"She wasn't in Darktown, either. She was down at the docks."

"Ha!" said Isabela. "Told you. _Everything_ winds up in the docks."

Anders' expression grew sly. "Not _just_ the docks."

Hawke put a hand over her eyes. "_Maker_. Don't tell me she broke in to the qunari compound _again_…"

"Not exactly." Anders was enjoying this. "The Arishok invited her for a bath."

Three flabbergasted faces turned to the mage.

"A what?" Varric managed in a choked voice.

"A bath," Anders repeated smugly. "She smells lovely, by the way. Like bergamot and tea leaves."

"You have _got_ to be shitting me," Isabela huffed. "Has everyone had their way with Shepard but me?"

"I haven't," protested Hawke mildly.

"And, despite Varric's insinuation, I haven't either."

"And you aren't likely to, now!"Isabela exclaimed. "How does a man measure up after the qunari? And the Arishok? Can you _imagine_ the size of his…"

"Discussing daggers again, I hope, Isabela." Sebastian brogue held a note of mild censure and he crossed his arms and looked down at the pirate with a raised eyebrow.

"…blade," Isabela finished lamely.

"Actually, if it is the Arishok you're speaking of, I believe he wields _both_ blade _and_ ax," the Prince of Starkhaven commented innocently. "As for size, it is likely that someone of lesser stature would require two hands to wield such a blade with the required precision."

Varric searched Choir Boy's eyes for some evidence that he was joking. Nobody could possibly make that comment with a straight face...

Hawke suddenly pretended to be fascinated by a spot on the ceiling. Anders pretended to examine his fingernails. Isabela bit one knuckle so hard that Varric was sure she'd draw blood.

Suddenly, Isabela shoved back her chair and leapt to her feet. "I've… got to go and… go," she stammered. As she hurried away, Anders called after her.

"Perhaps you'd like to have a _bath_?"

The tiny pause in her step proved his words had hit their mark.

"Nice, Blondie," Varric approved. "She's not going to forgive you for that quickly, you know."

'It was worth it, believe me." Anders said smugly.

Sebastian smiled faintly and took Isabela's seat. "Forgive my interruption. I suspect I would rather not know what you were truly speaking of before my arrival."

"Well, there was what we were talking about, and then there was where Isabela took the conversation," Anders commented.

"Be fair, Anders," Hawke scolded. "You practically put a signpost in her path."

"Although I'd like the details," added Varric.

"Just so I can get the story straight when I tell it, of course," he clarified, as Sebastian turned a frown on him.

"Yes, please tell me what Shepard was doing _bathing with the Arishok_," Hawke turned a penetrating gaze on the mage.

"Did I say anything about Catriona bathing with the Arishok?"

"Would this be the new apostate of yours, Hawke?" asked Sebastian.

"She's not a mage," replied three voices in concert.

Sebastian looked taken aback. "My apologies. I had heard…"

Hawke sighed. "She's handy with a fireball, but she isn't a mage. It's more like… runes, an enchantment."

"Ah," Sebastian nodded. "I see. And she was _bathing_ with the leader of the heathen force occupying Kirkwall? I don't know whether to be intrigued or appalled."

"I don't think I actually said anything of the sort," Anders responded. "And the qunari are hardly hanging out in the Viscount's Keep…"

"Wait… Blondie… you said _Catriona_?" Varric inquired curiously.

"Commander Shepard's given name," Anders answered with feigned nonchalance.

Varric's eyes narrowed. "_Commander_ Shepard, is it?"

"It was her rank back in Normandy."

"Normandy? Blondie, I think you have some things to share with us concerning our little N-fucking-7."

"_Varric_…" Sebastian shook his head.

"N-fucking-7?" Anders asked, mystified.

"See?" Hawke pointed out, "Annoying, isn't it?"

Sebastian looked from one side of the table to the other and back again. "I must confess, I am lost in this conversation."

Anders sighed. "There's really not much to tell. I was just enjoying being one up on Varric for a change." He leaned back in his chair. "Shepard is Commander Catriona Shepard vas Normandy, and she is… or was… a soldier."

"Hmm…" said Hawke, a twinkle in her eye, "I think it was actually _motherfucking_ Commander. Right, Varric?"

"Hawke," Sebastian's voice was pained.

"She's quoting," Varric apologized. "Right. Of the… what was it? Systems Alliance Navy?"

"The lass is a military officer?" Sebastian's brows drew together.

"And a god-damn Council Spectre," Hawke nodded knowingly.

Sebastian gave a puzzled frown. "What is a Council Spectre?"

Varric shook his head. "I have no idea. But I'm starting to get the impression that messere Shepard has quite the past."

**-ooo-**

Shepard put down the cloth she was wielding and slipped her index finger through the small hole in the back of the banded leather jacket. The band next to the rent in the leather was bent, testifying to the force of the blow.

_What I wouldn't give for some decent ceramic plating right now…_

She sighed and picked up the cloth, dipping it in the basin of water beside her and then rubbing it against the small block of leather soap Anders had scrounged up for her. She applied it to the jacket with small, firm circles, removing the traces of dirt, blood and sweat left behind.

_What I wouldn't give for nice, synthetic, breathable, _washable_ armored fabric right now…_

She frowned.

_And a bra._ She rubbed the sides of her breasts with a forearm.

Her stomach rumbled loudly. _And a pizza_.

She put the cloth down again and stared into space.

_I want to go home, dammit._

A soft, stealthy sound had her on her feet in seconds, reaching for a pistol that wasn't there.

"Come out where I can see you, whoever you are," she commanded.

A dusky figure in a tight white tunic stepped out from behind a pillar.

"Would you really have attacked me?" Isabela asked, sauntering across the floor.

Shepard relaxed. "Hell, yes. I may have only been here a few days, but I'm a quick study. This place is worse than the projects back in LA."

She settled back down and took up the armor and cloth again.

Isabela watched her for a moment. "You do know it's going to get dirty again, right?"

Shepard grimaced. "I'm trying to keep on top of it, so our enemies don't smell me coming."

Isabela cocked a hip lazily, letting her hand fall to its curve. "There are plenty of _other_ things you could keep on top of."

A faint frown crinkled Shepard's forehead, and she sighed. "Yeah. I need to mess around with Garrus; see if I can reverse his heat sink dependency."

Isabela lifted a dark eyebrow. "Garrus? If he's as _delectable_ as you, I want an introduction."

Emotions collided in a multi-car-pileup on Shepard's face. The resulting confusion while waiting for her limbic system to show up with a tow vehicle rendered her speechless.

"Wait, what?" was eventually the shape of what emerged.

Isabela let her hips swing slowly as she moved closer to Shepard. "Messing around with Garrus…?" she hinted.

_Oh, god. You just said you needed to mess around with Garrus…_

Shepard took a deep breath. "I, uh, named my rifle Garrus," she explained, feeling a deep flush suffuse her cheeks.

"Did you now?" Isabela's voice was amused. "I'll bet a dozen sovereigns that there's more to the story than that."

Shepard ducked her head in embarrassment.

_Great, Shepard. Way to go. Now you're going to be stuck with mental images about how you're holding _Garrus_, and cleaning _Garrus_, and oiling _Garrus_… Yeah. Brilliant idea, naming your gun after your best friend. Who is a turian. And has, to the best of your knowledge, absolutely _no_ xeno tendencies whatsoever._

"He's… you see… I just…" Shepard stammered.

Isabela grinned delightedly at her discomfiture. Shepard the strong, mysterious, and dangerous woman was sexy, but Shepard the tonguetied, embarrassed, and flustered woman was _adorable_.

Shepard looked up, her face a mask of resignation. "I named my rifle after my best friend. In retrospect, I think it may have been a bad idea."

Isabela smirked at her. "Were you… _special_… friends?"

"No! I mean, not in that way." Shepard took a long, deep breath. "He was special, yes, but I doubt he would have been interested in me. Sexually, I mean. We were… friends. Comrades. He was the one person I always knew I could rely on; I could trust implicitly."

Shepard's voice dropped to a whisper. "He always had my six. Right up to the end."

The suggestiveness dropped right out of Isabela's pose. "_Balls,"_ she sighed.

"I'm sorry," she apologized. "Look, I'm an ass…"

Shepard cut her off with a wave of her hand. "It's… it's fine." She ran a hand through her hair. "It's just… I don't know what happened to him. What happened to any of them… my friends, my crew. Hell, my _ship_."

She laughed mirthlessly. "And, _dammit_, I'm not someone who likes being in the dark. Not knowing. Being helpless."

Isabela frowned. "Your ship? You had a _ship_?"

"The Normandy," Shepard nodded.

"You were the captain of a ship? I was the captain of a ship!"

"I wasn't actually a captain, but the Normandy was my ship." Shepard smiled at Isabela's excitement. "And I seem to remember someone mentioning that. The _Siren_, right?"

Isabela's eyes turned wistful. "She was a lovely little ship. I'd give anything to have her back again."

"I understand. Watching the first Normandy break apart was… well, I just hope to god she stayed in one piece this time."

"Wait… your ship was scuttled and rebuilt?"

Shepard shook her head. "Not rebuilt, no. The first Normandy was destroyed completely. I went back and saw the wreckage - what was left - a couple years later. The second Normandy - the SR-2 - was built from the ground up using plans from the original ship, but bigger, faster, stronger. Hell, this last tour, we even had a bar." She smiled at the memory. "I think somebody read my mind on that one, in that last retrofit."

She paused, and cleared her throat softly. "Your crew…"

It was Isabela's turn to sigh. "Lost most of them when we hit the rocks. What is it with sailors never learning to swim?"

"That does seem a little short-sighted," Shepard agreed. "But for what it's worth, I'm sorry."

They sat in companionable silence for a while. Then Shepard resumed her cleaning, and Isabela watched her until the scent of citrus and tea leaves tickled her nose. A wide, wicked grin slid over her face.

"So, tell me," she said, voice afire with curiosity. "Is it true what they say about men with big horns? I've always been dying to know."


	14. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

As Anders stepped through the door to his clinic, he was more than a little surprised to find himself half-lifted and flung against the wall. Color and light shifted in front of him as Shepard appeared out of nothingness.

Although he'd seen her fight, Anders was amazed at how easily the woman held him pinned against the wall, her right forearm pressed just below his throat, right thigh wedged between his. Her green eyes glittered dangerously, less than a foot from his own.

"Shepard?" he managed weakly.

"Anders," she acknowledged in a low voice.

Had the circumstances been a bit different, Anders thought, he might have found the situation rather erotic.

The pressure on his collarbones increased slightly. "I believe you owe me an apology, Anders. And an explanation."

Anders' mind spun as he tried to think what he may have done to anger the woman in front of him. Her body shifted closer, pressing him harder into the unyielding stone.

Make that _incredibly_ erotic.

"I…" he began, unsure how to continue.

"You told them I _bathed_ with the _Arishok_?"

_Oh, Maker…_

"I didn't, honestly," he babbled. "I… it… they jumped to that conclusion, yes, but I put them straight, I swear, I…"

"Uh-huh." Shepard didn't sound convinced. "That isn't what I heard, apostate."

Anders swallowed hard, wondering if he'd be able to cast even a single spell before she gutted him like a fatted suckling. He could feel Justice stirring, and exerted every ounce of his will into keeping _his_ thoughts in the forefront.

"I… I'm sorry?" he offered. "I don't know who…"

He groaned suddenly. "_Isabela_," he said. "It was Isabela, wasn't it?"

"Look," he said sincerely, "you have to believe me. It was a… a misunderstanding."

As he looked into Shepard's face, willing her to see the truth in his eyes, he caught the faintest twitch of her lips. She was trying not to smile.

"That _bitch_," he said softly. "She put you up to this, didn't she?"

Isabela stepped out from behind a pillar. "It was a collaborative effort," she admitted, amusement in her voice and a smirk on her lips. "You should have _seen_ your face…"

Shepard stepped back, releasing him. "Fuck with me all you want, little mage. Just remember," she grinned. "Payback's a bitch."

**-ooo-**

"Morning, Shepard," Hawke said as she came through the clinic doors.

"Hawke," Shepard nodded, glancing up from the table where Garrus lay dismantled.

"Where's Anders?" the rogue asked, her eyes tracking around the room.

Shepard peered intently at the piece of titanium alloy in her hand. _Just about got it…_

"He said he had _some things_ to take care of. My guess would be something illegal. He's a little too dramatic to be subtle."

Hawke sighed. "Mage underground," she said.

Shepard chewed her bottom lip, carefully using the tip of a knife to make a minute adjustment. She paused for a moment. "What's a mage underground?" she asked. "Some kind of illegal gathering where they sit around and share bad poetry and use illicit drugs?" She made another tiny movement with the knife.

_There. I _think_._

"No, not exactly," Hawke replied. She couldn't help the grin that raised the corners of her lips at the mental image, however. "But it's part of why I'm here."

Shepard straightened up, trying to ease the kink out of her back. "Did you want me to let him know you came by?"

"Actually, I came for you," Hawke answered.

"Work?" Shepard raised an eyebrow.

"Yes indeed," Hawke said easily. "But more importantly, Varric and I thought it would be a good idea if I took you around the city and explained a bit about the way things are here in Kirkwall." She paused with a faint frown. "And other parts of Thedas as well."

The rogue shot Shepard a slightly uneasy glance. "We were worried about you yesterday."

Shepard looked surprised. "I know I was a bit hung over…"

Hawke shook her head. "That wasn't exactly why we worried. Kirkwall isn't… the _safest_ place."

The Spectre scowled. "I grew up in a street gang in the projects, Hawke. Even when I'm not at my best, I've got more fight in me than the thugs here."

"It's more complicated than that. It's… there are things you should know about Kirkwall; about Thedas. You're essentially a stranger here, and from what it sounds like, Normandy is quite different."

"Normandy?"

Hawke gave her a puzzled frown. "That is where you're from, isn't it? You've mentioned it a few times, and Anders called you Commander Shepard vas Normandy…"

Shepard smiled. "The Normandy is my home, but it is not where I'm from. She's a ship." She cocked her head a bit. "But you're right - where I'm from is quite different from Kirkwall, and from what I've seen of Thedas."

"So you'll come with me?" Hawke asked.

"Of course. Could you give me a minute to finish?" Shepard gestured at the disassembled rifle.

For the first time, Hawke took a good look at what Shepard had been working on. She vaguely recognized it as pieces of the object they'd found with the woman as she lay bleeding out on the dockside.

"What is it?" she asked curiously. "Anders says it's some sort of weapon?"

Shepard nodded as she began reassembling it, her fingers moving almost without conscious thought. "It's called a rifle. It fires a small piece of metal at very high speed. Like a crossbow, but much, much faster."

Hawke moved closer, watching as Shepard deftly slotted piece after piece together. "Sounds powerful. How does it work?"

Shepard grunted. "_Very_ powerful. But I couldn't explain how it works without first explaining a lot of other things."

"Like?"

"Quantum physics and the effect of an electrical current on dark energy."

"Ah," said Hawke with a knowing nod. "_Technology_."

**-ooo-**

_Oh. My. God._

Shepard couldn't help but stare at the man Hawke had just introduced as _Sebastian Vael_. He was quite possibly the most _beautiful_ man Shepard had ever seen in the flesh. Just masculine enough to avoid being pretty, with perfectly sculpted features and the most intensely blue-green eyes to be found outside of synthetic implants or a gen-eng catalog.

The man wore a combination of steel mail and white-enameled plate, trimmed with some kind of very soft-looking animal fur around the collar. He carried an impressive longbow and a quiver of distinctively fletched arrows on his back, and a small dagger on his belt, which was fastened by an oddly grotesque buckle in the shape of a woman's face.

_Jesus fucking Christ. He can't _possibly_ be real._

"It's good to finally meet you, serah Shepard," he said, and Shepard felt her knees go weak. His baritone carried a strong brogue reminiscent of the Scottish Highlands back on Earth.

_Do they have vid stars here? Because, __**fuck**__._

She managed a strained half-smile and held out a hand to him. "Likewise, serah Vael."

_You're a professional, Shepard. Quit panting like a bitch in heat and act like it!_

Sebastian fell alongside her as Hawke led the two of them away from the ornately carved doors of the cathedral building Hawke had called the Chantry.

"I am told you come from lands outside of Thedas," he began, somewhat hesitantly. "Is this true?"

For the fraction of a second, Shepard wondered what the two of them would do if she said no.

"Yes," she replied, wrestling with her suddenly impish humor.

"Ah," Sebastian said. "Is the Chant of Light heard in your lands?"

As Hawke had just finished explaining the Andrastrian faith to Shepard, she understood the question Sebastian was posing. "No," she answered simply.

Sebastian frowned. "Surely your people do not worship the Old Gods?"

Shepard shook her head. "There are many religions where I come from, and many philosophies."

The beautiful man turned his exquisite eyes on her. "You say that with dissatisfaction, serah Shepard."

"Please… just _Shepard_ will do."

He smiled at her, and Shepard felt bits of her brain fuse. "As you wish, Shepard. Please, call me Sebastian."

Sebastian paused for a moment, his eyes still on Shepard. "Perhaps you could tell me of your faith one day, and I could tell you of mine."

Later, Shepard would blame that dazzling smile and those aquamarine eyes on the way her next words tumbled sarcastically from her lips with no real thought behind them.

"What faith?"

Those stunning eyes blinked in surprise. "You have no faith, no belief?" Shepard could see the light of missionary zeal flicker to life.

_Aw, fuck. Rule number one with the religious is always the same, Shepard. _Never_ admit you're an atheist. It's like inviting the vampires into your house…_

"Um… not exactly." Shepard tried to backpedal desperately. "I… there is one thing that I believe."

"N-fucking-7?" quipped Hawke, suddenly coming to Shepard's rescue.

Shepard smiled in relief, then pulled a mock scowl. "N7 isn't a belief," she retorted. "It's a _fact_."

"I beg your pardon," Sebastian looked puzzled, "but what exactly _is_ N7? I have heard this before, but it was never properly explained."

Hawke flashed Shepard a tight grin. "It means kicking ass and taking names - right, Shepard?"

Shepard laughed. "Hell yeah."

Sebastian's bemusement deepened. "Why would you take names?"

"In case you need to come back and kick more ass later," Shepard grinned.

He sighed. "Why am I not surprised at that answer? You are as flippant as Hawke."

"Isn't it exciting?" Hawke shot him a grin over her shoulder.

"I don't believe I would use that word, no." He smiled suddenly. "_Vexing_."

"Hey," Shepard said, hoping to push the conversation even further from the touchy subject of faith and her personal lack thereof, "I meant to ask if you've heard from Fenris. Is he all right? Did he make it back safely from the slave pens?"

Shepard could see Hawke's shoulders tense slightly, but the rogue replied in the affirmative. "Yes. He came to the estate last night."

"Good," Shepard replied. "I don't claim to know what his story is, but that whole thing seemed… rough." Her lips thinned grimly. "Slavery is an ugly thing."

"It is indeed," Sebastian assented.

"Are most magic users really so… brutal? Is that why there's an underground movement?" Shepard asked.

"No," Hawke said. "Most mages are normal people. It's really only in Tevinter - with the magisters - that magic has become synonymous with brutality."

Sebastian's lips thinned unpleasantly. "That is because in the rest of Thedas, mages are restrained by the Chantry and her Templars," he declared. "Magic exists to serve man, not to rule over him."

"Restrained?" Shepard asked. "In what way?"

"Oh, look," said Hawke loudly. "Here we are. The Viscount's Keep."

Shepard looked up at a pair of immense doors flanked by more of Kirkwall's ubiquitous brooding bird statues. Glancing behind her at the long flights of steps they'd negotiated, she recalled something Kaidan had once said to her in the Citadel Tower. A soft chuckle escaped her.

"Appreciating the delightful architecture?" Hawke teased.

"Pondering a universal truth of political psychology," she answered. "The greater the number of stairs you're forced to climb to reach somebody, the more inflated that person's sense of importance."

"That is a cynical view," Sebastian noted.

"True though," grinned Hawke.

**-ooo-**

Aveline Vallen was a tall, broad-shouldered woman with strong features and ginger hair who wore her heavy steel plate with every appearance of ease. She had about her a sense of capability that Shepard immediately recognized - this was a soldier, and a good one. Perhaps not a brilliant fighter, the way Hawke was, but solid, dependable, and loyal - the kind of person you could always trust on your six.

The Guard-Captain was having a discussion with Isabela when they entered her office.

"I had trouble with another one of your women, Isabela," Aveline said sternly. "She stole from a… distracted client. You're lucky she wasn't jailed."

"_My_ women?" Isabela protested mildly. "I am but a shepherd."

The pirate placed her hands on her hips. "And what free enterprise are you oppressing now?"

Aveline folded her arms on her well-armored chest. "Theft is _not_ enterprise."

Isabela opened her amber eyes wide. "Opportunities insufficiently guarded," she translated, making a dismissive motion with one hand. "Victimless crimes."

Aveline's eyes narrowed. "Except for all the victims."

A lazy smile spread over Isabela's face. "Details. Victimless details."

Aveline opened her mouth to comment, but hesitated when she caught sight of Hawke in the doorway.

"Hawke," she said with surprise, "you got my message?"

"Of course, Aveline," Hawke replied. "What can I do for my favorite Guard-Captain today?"

The direct blue eyes clouded briefly, and the strong features looked uncertain. "Hawke, I need… a favor that I can only trust to you."

"Oh?" said Hawke cheerfully. "_This_ should be good."

Aveline leaned her hips against her desk. "It should be a small matter, but I worry," she said. "I need you to give something to Guardsman Donnic. Here, in the barracks. No questions, and he is not to know it's from me."

"Donnic? The one we pulled from an ambush?"

"The event that put me here," Aveline agreed. "But this is… a different need of the guard and it's captain," she added evasively. "And you're doing very badly at the '_no questions_' part."

Hawke was unconcerned. "If that's all you need," she shrugged. "I'll walk the hundred feet to him."

"Thank you. And please, hurry back with his reaction." Aveline smiled in relief. "I appreciate this, Hawke. I really do."

She handed over a small, flat, wrapped parcel. Hawke took it gingerly, glancing down at it in curiosity. With a tiny jerk of her head, Hawke signaled the others to follow as she left the office and headed toward the guards' mess.

The guardsman in question was an unassuming brunette, with serious brown eyes and the scruffy beginnings of some impressive mutton chops below his sideburns. Hawke greeted him affably.

"Serah Hawke," he replied with a short nod. "It's been some time. You're here in Hightown now, right? I think the captain mentioned it."

He gave the rogue a slightly uncomfortable glance. "I see your uncle now and then on my patrols, but… we don't talk."

Hawke shrugged this off, and gave the guardsman a bright smile. "I have it on good authority that you are going to enjoy this," she told him, handing over the wrapped package.

"Am I now?" Donnic murmured with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism. Slowly, he removed the wrapping and stared at the thing in his hands.

"It's a copper relief of…" he tilted his head slightly, "marigolds?" His head cocked back the other way. "And it helpfully says so. 'Marigolds'."

Donnic looked up at Hawke in confusion.

"Well," he said uncertainly. "How crafty. Is there a meaning to this that I should know?"

Hawke looked as perplexed as the guardsman. "Possibly '_here, _you_ throw this away_'?"

"Well," the guardsman admitted, "it certainly conveys that."

"Right," Donnic shifted his weight. "I'm… sure we both have things to do. Of varying import," he added. "Serah Hawke."

Isabela looked disgusted. "Is there some reason Aveline just made us look like idiots?"

Shaking her head, Hawke led them back to the captain's office.

Aveline greeted them eagerly. "So, how did Donnic react?"

Hawke lifted an eyebrow and tossed the small plaque on the desk. "To your garbage, you mean?"

Aveline's brows drew downward sharply. "I thought it was clear!" she said. "Metal is strong; copper ages well; flowers are soft."

Isabela and Shepard traded a glance. Hawke drew back sharply in surprise. Sebastian put a hand to his forehead.

Aveline looked unsettled. "I've clearly gone about this the wrong way," she muttered. "Don't talk to him again," she warned Hawke. "Just…take this." She shoved a closely written page at Hawke. "The patrols for next week. Post it to the roster and just… listen."

Hawke looked to the page and back to Aveline. She sighed. "All right. Posting the roster…" she jerked her head toward the door. "Just over there."

Aveline's look was intent. "I need to know _exactly_ how he reacts. That's key." She gave Hawke a small smile. "Thank you."

"Ugh," muttered Isabela to Shepard. "Too many hits to the head. Or not enough…"

Wearily, Hawke trudged out to the main room of the barracks and, with bad grace, pinned the notice to the roster post.

A female guard with a pinched, weasel-like face drifted up to the notice.

"Ay! Donnic," she called, "whose pucker have you been greasing to get Hightown?"

Donnic, whose face now bore the expression of someone having a very bad day indeed, looked up. "What? You're daft!" He started over to have a look for himself. "I'm working dockside on those smugglers."

"Says here you're guarding the square. Always been a make-work job, that one. You someone's pet?"

"Check your eyes," he retorted, squinting at the notice. "It's a mistake."

The woman scowled at him. "Says the _pet._"

As she left, Donnic shook his head. "You have _got_ to be kidding me. What did I do to get _that _post?"

Hawke exchanged a look with her squad, saying all that needed to be said. As before, she returned to the office to report the results.

"Donnic thinks I'm punishing him?" Aveline said incredulously. "But Hightown is a _safe_ patrol. A reward."

"You wanted his reaction," Hawke told her firmly.

Aveline began to pace the room agitatedly. She rolled her eyes heavenward. "All right," she said with determination, "I can fix this." She paused for a moment. "I need… I need three goats, and a sheaf of wheat," she declared, turning to Hawke desperately. "You'll take them to his mother."

Hawke settled her arms across her chest and raised an eyebrow in disbelief.

"It's a dowry tradition," Aveline explained. "Maybe it will smooth the process."

"Hold a moment," said Isabela, with something approaching glee. "You're _sweet_ on the boy!"

"So help me, whore," growled Aveline, features taut with hate, "I will _break_ you."

Isabela chuckled with delight. "Oh, this is glorious. All this flailing is her idea of courtship!"

Hawke gave the Guard-Captain an exasperated look. "How, exactly, did you think this mess would work?"

"I don't know what I thought," Aveline admitted. "I've been focused on being captain for so long, that's all I know."

"Been there," muttered Shepard.

Isabela pursed her lips thoughtfully. "I'm confused," she said slowly. "Wasn't Lady Man-Hands married already?"

Aveline frowned. "That was… a long time ago," she stated. "It was… easier, or seemed to be."

"Well, this little dance certainly isn't helping," Hawke declared. "So what will?"

"I'm the captain. He's my guardsman. I can't get past that."

Shepard sighed. "Fraternization's a bitch," she commented. "Especially as the CO. Trust me, I know."

She paused a moment. "On the upside, at least you're not trying to save the galaxy. You have time - take some leave and do something where you're on equal footing."

Isabela shrugged. "So, go out," she suggested. "Get him drunk. Shame is a great equalizer."

"What?" Aveline demanded. "Just go out somewhere? Like it's that easy?"

Hawke grinned impishly. "What? Too simple?"

Aveline hesitated. "Tell Donnic…" she began, and paused.

"Invite him to the Hanged Man. Don't tell him about me," her eyes flashed a warning, "make something up. It's a surprise, or just you, or a group. Anything to get him there."

Her expression was pained. "He's not like the others," she said quietly. "I don't want him to think he's meeting the captain."

Hawke gave a small shake of her head, but turned to go find the guardsman again.

"Guardsman Donnic!" Hawke exclaimed jovially, "How are you?"

The guardsman gave her a wary look. Shepard didn't blame him. "Good, I suppose," he responded guardedly.

"Doesn't matter," Hawke said breezily. "Free for an evening?"

Donnic's wariness increased. "I have no immediate patrols. Why?"

"A night at the Hanged Man for all the guard," Hawke threw up her arms in a celebratory fashion. "You'll come? Of course you'll come!"

"Should I have heard of this?" Donnic asked in confusion. "Very well, serah Hawke," he answered with a slight smile. "I guess I'll be there."

As the guardsman walked away, they caught him muttering to himself, "…never good to be the last to hear of these things…"

"Is it just me," said Shepard as they watched him go, "or is this going to end badly?"

**-ooo-**

"Where's Varric at?" Isabela asked as they moved through the Hightown market.

"He's missed the last fifteen meetings of the Merchant's Guild, so they finally sent him an invitation he couldn't refuse," Hawke told her.

"Gold? Best Antivan brandy? Saucy dwarven wenches?"

"An assassin with an ax, I think."

"Do you think they've finally decided to respond to my letters?" Isabela mused.

Hawke grinned. "The ones suggesting they declare him a Paragon?"

"Mmm, yes," Isabela's voice was dreamy. "The Paragon of Manliness."

Sebastian raised his eyebrows. "You actually suggested that?"

Isabela gave him an arch look. "Maybe if you flashed a little chest hair now and then, I'd send letters to the Grand Cleric on _your_ behalf." She smiled in a lazy, suggestive way.

"That would be highly inappropriate for someone who has taken a vow of chastity," Sebastian retorted, a flush rising to his cheeks.

"Oh? Perhaps the Paragon of Sexual Frustration, then," Isabela suggested. "You're good at that."

"I'm not…"

Isabela interrupted him. "I'm not talking about _your_ frustration. Isn't that right, Hawke?"

"Maker, _yes_," Hawke replied, with feeling.

"Hawke, I…" Sebastian began, floundering for words.

"Wait," said Shepard, for whom the penny had dropped, "you mean you're _celibate_?"

Sebastian looked slightly hunted. "I was a brother in faith for many years, yes."

"_Brother_? You're some kind of _monk_?" Shepard's jaw sagged.

Sebastian licked his lips nervously. "Was," he corrected. "The Grand Cleric… released… me from my vows, so that I might take up my birthright."

Shepard halted, and blinked at him. "Birthright? What birthright?"

"Did Hawke not tell you?" He looked surprised. "I am the Prince of Starkhaven."

"A prince?" Shepard's brow furrowed deeply. "But… if you're celibate, what happens when you become king? Succession, I mean? Heirs?"

"There is no king in Starkhaven," Sebastian replied.

"Why? Because you were a monk?"

"Prince _is_ the ruling title in Starkhaven," Hawke explained. "A position currently occupied by one of his distant cousins after the murder of Sebastian's family."

Sebastian sighed. "As for the problem of succession… That, I fear, is an issue I shall have to face if I am to take back Starkhaven and provide the land the stability it deserves."

"This is… _unreal_," Shepard said flatly.

"You do not have usurpers and struggles for power where you come from, Shepard?" Sebastian queried. "Would that such a place existed in the lands of Thedas."

She shook her head. "We have ordinary, everyday politics. Not… fairy tales."

"What's the difference?" Hawke asked, tilting her head curiously.

"Politics just involves assholes jockeying for position against other assholes," Shepard summed up. "Not," she waved a hand at Sebastian, "handsome princes in shining white armor, pure in faith and their duty to god, on a quest to reclaim a stolen throne."

Sebastian flushed again. "I assure you, I am a man like any other."

"Not true," Isabela argued. "When you talk to me, you look everywhere _but_ my breasts."

"She's got you there, Sebastian," Hawke agreed. "Even I have a hard time not staring at them."

"Would it be possible for us to discuss something else?" Sebastian asked in a pained voice.

Isabela gave him a smile. "I could guess the color of your underclothing," she offered.

"Perhaps not that."

The pirate pouted. "Fenris loves that game."

"Isn't there something of greater import than the color of my smallclothes?"

"Trust me, Sebastian," Isabela purred, draping one arm over his shoulders, "in no way could there _ever_ be anything quite as riveting as your smalls. Except, perhaps, for what's in them."

**-ooo-**

"What is this place?" Shepard asked, looking around at the iron spikes and tortured bronze figures surrounding the courtyard. "A modern art museum?"

"It is called the Gallows," Sebastian told her gravely. "It was once a prison for slaves, when the Imperium held Kirkwall. Now it is home to Kirkwall's Circle of Magi."

Shepard wrinkled her nose in disgust. "You would think they would have redecorated. I can't imagine anyone wanting to stay in a place like this voluntarily."

"They don't," said Hawke, quietly.

"What?" Shepard spun on her.

"Mages are taken from their families and put into the Circle when they start showing signs of magical aptitude," Hawke continued. "It's rarely voluntary."

"It is for their own protection, as well as the protection of others," Sebastian insisted. "Those with magic are a beacon for demons. The Circle is there to ensure that those not strong enough to resist a demon's promptings are… dealt with."

"Why not drown them at birth, then?" Shepard snarled.

Sebastian looked affronted. "They are still the Maker's children. To kill them outright would be a sin."

Shepard threw one hand in the air. "So instead you lock them up like prisoners?"

"It is the best solution for the problem. They are cared for, and receive training for their magic, so that they might use it to serve others. And they are kept from harm - there are many who would rather see them killed, and would take matters into their own hands otherwise."

"So they become your slaves? Or worse, animals - cows to be milked, sheep to be sheared?" Shepard growled.

"They are not slaves," Sebastian argued. "It is the Maker's will. Magic is meant to serve man, not to rule over him."

"_BULLSHIT!_" Shepard roared. "A person who is denied freedom and exists to serve at another's command is a _slave_."

Sebastian shook his head, his jaw set firmly. "You do not understand. Mages are dangerous."

"_Dangerous_?" Shepard advanced on him slowly, threat clearly written in every line of her body. Her green eyes were hard, and narrowed to slits. "_I'm_ dangerous, Vael. I _guarantee_ you that I have a higher body count than every mage in your precious Circle put together."

"But you do not risk being taken over by a demon. You do not have blood magic to coerce others to do your will," Sebastian pointed out.

"Demons aren't necessary for someone to be dangerous, or to be evil! And why use coercion when one can convince others to commit atrocities of their own free will?" Shepard snapped.

"A few hundred years ago where I come from there was a man - _just_ a man - who put _six million_ people to torture and death. His people followed him _willingly_. Performed heinous acts against their fellow man _willingly_. No magic. No demons. Just a stone-cold madman with charisma who played on the worst that can be found in people's hearts and minds," she hissed.

"And while we don't have demons, we might have something like possession - a process called indoctrination. Indoctrination can turn good people into traitors to their own kind. But those I saw who did the most unspeakable things in the name of indoctrination were sadistic bastards from the start. Indoctrination merely altered their goals, not their methods."

"_People_ are the problem, Vael. Not magic users. There will always be dictators, madmen, serial killers… You want to keep people safe? Lock each and every last one of them up. Protect them from themselves."

Shepard's outburst had drawn a crowd. Hawke could see Knight-Captain Cullen approaching, a grim scowl on his face.

Sebastian's face was pale, his nostrils pinched, but whether in anger or out of shock Hawke could not be certain. She put a careful hand on Shepard's arm.

"You've made some good points, Shepard," she said urgently. "But I think it's probably time for us to go now."

Shepard glanced up and caught sight of Cullen. "Ah. And here come the whips, right?"

"Whips?" Hawke looked from Shepard to Cullen and back again.

Shepard's face was grim. "Where you get slaves, you always find whips. Literally or," she shot a glare at the Templar that should have fried him in his armor, "figuratively."

"They are not _whips_," Sebastian said tightly. "They are the Chantry's Templars, and they serve the Maker."

"_Enough_!" Shepard shouted. "Vael, if you try to use your god to justify the enslavement of an entire class of people _one_ more time, I am going to knock you on your self-righteous ass, Hawke's pet princeling or not!"

"Ah, serah Hawke," said Cullen wearily. "Why am I not surprised to find you at the center of a disturbance in the Gallows?"

Hawke smiled brightly. "Oh, you know me… always excitement."

"Indeed." The Knight-Captain turned to Shepard. "And you, serah… do you have a problem that the Order could address for you?" Although Cullen's voice was mild, even bland, there was an unmistakable threat behind his words.

"You…" Shepard began in a low voice.

Hawke cut her off. "We were just leaving, Knight-Captain. My friend is… from Orlais, and takes exception to Tevinter art," she improvised, her hand wrapped tightly around Shepard's arm. "She thinks you could do something with a few trees, hedges, some flowers, maybe a big gaudy fountain with a marble chevalier in it…"

"Somehow, I don't think that's all your friend takes exception to," Cullen's eyes narrowed.

"You're damn right about that, slaver," Shepard growled menacingly.

"Slaver?" repeated Cullen in surprise. "I am a Templar, serah, not a slaver."

"Oh, my… would you _look_ at the time? I'm afraid we _really must be going_ now." Hawke motioned for Isabela to take Shepard's other arm and the two of them began to physically manhandle the enraged Spectre back in the direction of the docks. "So nice to see you again, Knight-Captain."

"We are surrounded by armed men in plate mail, Shepard. Now is not the time," she hissed, under her breath.

Shepard shook the other women off and stopped, looking back over her shoulder at the Templar. "If you would ever like to _discuss_ my exceptions to you in the future, slaver, feel free to come find me. I'll be looking forward to it."

**-ooo-**

Shepard stared back at the island, body stiff and hands balled into fists at her sides. "That's only the second time I've ever wished my biotic ability was greater - and that the Illusive Man would have dropped an L5x into my skull - so that I could unleash mass effect hell and tear a place to bits," she said in a low, angry voice.

She turned to where Hawke sat on a crate. "Can you really condone what's being done there?" Shepard demanded.

Hawke was uncharacteristically quiet when she replied. "No. I can't." The rogue looked up, and Shepard saw a deep hurt in her eyes. "My sister is in there," she said.

Some of the anger drained out of Shepard. "I'm sorry," she apologized. "I had no idea."

"This is one of the things that Varric and I thought you should know about. We know that your abilities aren't due to magic, but the Templars don't - and what's more, they won't care. They will see you as an apostate, and they'll do their best to bring you in to the Gallows. Or, failing that, to simply kill you."

"Hawke," Sebastian protested.

Hawke waved him off. "No, Sebastian… I know you don't agree, but Shepard is right about this. There is nothing kind or just or compassionate about the Circle. And I hope that some day, the Chantry will see that."

Shepard exhaled noisily and dropped onto a crate. "I need either a very stiff drink or to shoot somebody right now."

"Well, there's a little task out on the coast I said we'd take care of. And it should suit your state of mind quite well - it's for the mage underground."

Sebastian sighed.

Hawke held up a hand. "You don't have to come with us, Sebastian. I'm sure we ladies will do just fine on our own without any of our handsome archers to back us up."

"You know I wouldn't desert you, Hawke. You have my bow, as always."

**-ooo-**

Shepard added a new rule to her list. No trip to the Wounded Coast was _ever_ as simple as it seemed.

The job they were there to do was a quick and dirty affair - a runaway mage had been caught by bounty hunters, who would either sell her into slavery or bring her to the Templars in the Gallows. The men were ruthless but not terribly skilled, and Hawke, Isabela, Shepard and Sebastian had plowed through them like a hot knife through butter. In fact, the only tense moment during the entire encounter came when Shepard was sprinting at a scarred man with a rust-spotted blade and got too close to the cave wall, triggering her hyper-sensitive shields and throwing her to the ground, where she skipped like a pebble over a pond.

She'd readjusted her barriers again, making a vow to look into getting some decent armor made. There were huge foundries in Lowtown - someone had to know something about making decent industrial carbide ceramics, right?

She could hope, anyway.

As they were trekking back to the city, the squad heard shouts on their three, where a pathway snaked down and around to a promontory jutting out into the rocky surf. A careful jog down the path revealed a contingent of the city guard, pressed into the cover of some rocks. As they watched, one incautious guard raised out of cover and took an arrow through the visor of his helmet.

Shepard couldn't help herself - instincts took over, and she sprinted to the pinned-down squad's aid. "Patrol, report!" she barked as she slid into cover beside the armored men.

A young woman with reddish-brown pigtails spoke up. "I'm Lieutenant Harley, and this is what's left of my patrol. Are you the reinforcements? I thought the captain would send more."

Hawke gave the guard one of her patented wide-eyed looks as she dropped into cover beside Shepard. "We happened to be in the area, seeing sights and killing bandits… the usual."

"Not the best time for jest," the lieutenant said sourly. "_Bollocks_."

She looked up, not to Hawke, but to Shepard.

"We're up against Evet's Mauraders," she said grimly.

"Evet's?" exclaimed Isabela. "Shit."

"Fell Orden is up there," the lieutenant continued. "And Victor Longdeath's handiwork you've already seen. We tried two sorties up the path, but it's trapped to oblivion. Now I'd be thankful just to get out of here alive."

"No fair, guard dog," called someone further along the promontory. "You've brought friends."

The pigtailed guard screwed her face up. "Shut your mouth," she yelled in response.

"Lieutenant!" Shepard snapped.

The woman practically came to attention. "Ser."

"I need to know who we're dealing with. Who are Fell Orden and Victor Longdeath?"

"They've been robbing and raping for Maker knows how long," the lieutenant answered. "Did a broad daylight assault on the Keep to rescue one of their number two years back. Fell Orden, a blood mage, is here."

"I'm taking it that Victor Longdeath would be the archer, then."

"Yes. We have to end them."

"Any idea how many we're hostiles we're talking about?"

The guardswoman shrugged. "I don't know. A score, maybe more."

Shepard turned to Hawke. "They've already lost a lot of men," she said in a low voice. "Do you think we can manage on our own?"

"Evet's a tough son of a bitch," said Isabela. "But it doesn't sound like he's here. Apart from the blood mage and Longdeath, we're probably looking at just a bunch of your average thugs."

Hawke calculated a moment. "I think we can do this alone, yes."

"Good. Lieutenant!" Once again, Shepard became the sole target of the guardswoman's attention. "Keep your men back. Guard the perimeter and our fallback position. Understood?"

"Yes ser."

Shepard gave her a curt nod. "How do you want to deal with this, Hawke?"

"I'd say we skirt around this outcropping to the right," Hawke said, motioning with one hand. "Isabela and I can go ahead of you and Sebastian to disarm any traps they've laid on the pathway. Hopefully, we can hit their flank and take the blood mage down quickly. That will improve our odds considerably."

"Right. Let's go."

Hawke and Isabela eased along the narrow pathway, searching for tripwires and pressure plates. They'd found and disarmed two traps before uncovering a fireteam of archers on a small rise in the pathway. Taken by surprise, the men were downed before they could shout an alert to their allies. Hawke disarmed a third trap just beyond, and motioned the squad up to her side in a clump of bushes.

Below them, along where the main pathway led away from their fallback position, a man in intricate robes stood surrounded by four or five men in banded leather similar to what Shepard now wore. Approximately fifteen meters away on their eleven, another group of archers were positioned on a shelf overlooking the main path.

Hawke reached into a pouch at her belt and withdrew one of her stoppered glass globes. She nodded to Isabela, who dipped into her own leather pouch to produce a second.

Shepard reached over her shoulder to where Garrus hung in his newly-modified-but-still-inadequate holster, and pulled him free with some difficulty. As she unfolded the rifle, she gave Hawke a slow nod, nestling the stock against her shoulder. A faint whine over her shoulder was the sound of Sebastian drawing his longbow.

"Now," whispered Hawke, sending the globe spinning at the mage, while Isabela's arced toward the archers. With a faint singing noise, Sebastian let his arrow fly.

The mage staggered when the globe shattered, causing Sebastian's shot to catch him in the shoulder rather than the throat. With a cry, he threw up some kind glowing orb around himself, and Sebastian's second arrow was deflected.

Shepard stared through the scope, her breathing dropping at once into familiar patterns.

Inhale.

_Acquire._

Exhale. Hold. _I hope you knew what you were doing earlier…_

_Fire._

The head of a man rushing up on Hawke's four disappeared in a red mist.

_Rushed it and pulled to the left. Damn._

Where normally Shepard would pause to eject a heat sink and insert a new one, she merely shifted Garrus a little on her shoulder, resettling the stock.

Inhale.

_Pray this works…_

_Acquire_. The sparkling blue orb popped like a soap bubble as the mage pointed his staff at Isabela, who cried out and writhed in agony.

Exhale. Hold.

_Fire_.

The mage's head snapped back violently, and Shepard grinned like a tiger. She fought down an urge to whoop loudly, and counted her heartbeat.

Inhale. _Acquire_. Exhale. Hold. _Fire_.

Reseat the stock. Count heartbeats.

Inhale. _Acquire_. Exhale. Hold. _Fire_.

Evet's Mauraders went down one by one, to blade, arrow or slug. Shepard spotted the final man lurking in some thick vegetation, his arrow trained on Hawke's chest. Wishing her rifle's namesake were here to see the shot, she lined up on his unprotected throat and fired.

"How did you do that?" Sebastian demanded. "He was over a hundred yards away, in cover!"

Shepard swung Garrus into high ready and got to her feet. She tapped the scope with her left index finger. "Mother's little helper," she chuckled.

At the archer's look of confusion, she carefully shifted the rifle into holstered mode, brushing the scope with her thumb to bring it back online.

"Look through it," she instructed, settling the rifle's pistol grip into Sebastian's right hand and guiding the powerful gun into place. "Don't worry - it can't fire like this."

"Go ahead," she urged, when he hesitated. "Imagine you're sighting on a target with your bow drawn - it'll be a similar action."

With a faint frown, Sebastian did as Shepard told him.

"Andraste's grace!" he exclaimed, nearly dropping the rifle in surprise. "It's… it's like a spyglass, isn't it?"

"Similar, yes." Shepard took Garrus back from him, thumbed off the scope, and groped around for the back holster.

"And this is a _common_ weapon where you come from?"

Shepard shrugged. "No. This is a specialist's weapon, meant for long distances. It's very powerful, but very slow. More common weapons shoot faster, but aren't as powerful."

"How could someone ever protect themselves against something like this?" Sebastian's face bore a faint trace of horror.

Shepard shrugged again, and began to pick her way down the path. "Armor. Shields."

"But this… It seems even heavy plate would have a hard time stopping this."

"It wouldn't stand a chance," Shepard informed him. "Metal's nowhere near hard enough."

Sebastian hurried to catch up with her. "But how…"

Shepard looked over her shoulder at him. "Look. You probably started out with fur and hide armor, right? Which is not bad against dull blades, like bronze. But as blades became iron and then steel, you moved on to leather and metal, and then chain mail, right? And as longbows and crossbows got better, chain mail had to be replaced by plate. Our armor evolved with our weapons as well."

The Prince of Starkhaven stared at her thoughtfully. "You are dangerous indeed," he murmured.

The green eyes that stared back at him were harder than flint.

"And don't _ever_ forget it."

* * *

_A/N: Suffered through a terrible case of writer's block with this chapter. I apologize if it shows._


	15. Chapter 14

_A/N: I feel like this chapter should be called "How Shepard Got Her Groove Back"._

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen**

"Not a bad bit of coin," Hawke commented as they left the Viscount's Keep. "Who knew there was such a bounty on Evet's men?" She split the money into even shares and handed them out. When she reached Sebastian, he waved it aside.

"You know I don't require coin, Hawke," he said.

"And you know I always tell you the same thing - you can donate it if you've no use for it yourself. Unless," her gaze turned thoughtful, "you want Shepard to have your take. She could use the extra coin for equipment, and to keep herself fed."

Hawke gave Shepard an apologetic look. "No offense, but you eat almost as much as Anders."

"High metabolism," Shepard shrugged.

To his credit, Sebastian never hesitated. "Of course," he said. "That is a fine idea."

Shepard narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "You do remember that I threatened to beat the crap out of you earlier, don't you?"

"You were upset," Sebastian acknowledged. "Things may often be said in heat that are not truly meant."

"I was fucking _livid_," Shepard corrected. "And I meant every word."

The archer smiled beatifically. "Like Hawke, you have a great depth of passion. You are not afraid to stand for what you believe. You seek to protect others, and you speak out for what you perceive as injustice. And you are honest. These are all commendable things in the Maker's eyes."

Shepard looked at Hawke. "He can't be real," she said flatly.

**-ooo-**

They left Sebastian at the Chantry steps, and Isabela at the Rose, though not before the latter extolled the virtues of her favorite establishment in Hightown. Shepard smiled, murmured, "I'm Captain Isabela, and this is my favorite brothel in Kirkwall," and shook her head.

Hawke glanced at Shepard with a grin of her own. "I can highly recommend Jethann, should you be interested. He has very talented hands, and a delightful mouth."

Shepard was not often shocked, but Hawke managed the feat easily. "You… I mean, _Isabela_ I can see, but…"

Hawke laughed delightedly. "Unlike Sebastian, I've taken no vows of chastity."

"I didn't mean that," Shepard frowned. "What about… well, you're surrounded by men who seem to like and respect you, and it's not as if you've got any fraternization regs to worry about…"

The rogue tipped her head to the side. "You're wondering why I have so many delicious men at my beck and call and yet regularly visit a fiery elven whore, is that it?"

"Well, yeah."

Hawke put on a face of tragic despair. "It's enough to make the bards cry, isn't it? And the answer is… terrible timing. They're all untouchable."

"Untouchable?" Shepard's face creased in puzzlement. "What do you mean?"

Hawke held up one finger. "Exhibit A: Anders, the tragically haunted former Grey Warden apostate. Who once liked nothing better than good wine, a pretty girl, and shooting lightning at fools, but now happens to have the _very uptight_ spirit of Justice in his head as a constantly disapproving chaperone. He has a hard time ignoring Justice's complaints long enough to get drunk these days."

She held up a second finger. "Exhibit B: Fenris, the dangerously good-looking and scathingly bitter former slave. Who was subjected to an agonizing ritual that left him with painful lyrium tattoos all over his body, no memory of his former life, a chip on his shoulder the size of Tevinter, and the ability to stick his hand into your living chest and crush your heart, should the mood take him."

A third finger. "Exhibit C: Sebastian, the exceptionally handsome prince and former Chantry brother. Who spent his younger days drinking and whoring to such a point that his family shipped him off to the Grand Cleric, but who now clings to vows of celibacy that no longer bind him _despite_ being the last of a direct line that has ruled Starkhaven for generations."

Hawke added her pinky to the rest of her fingers. "And finally, Exhibit D: Varric, the irresistible dwarf with a silver tongue and a heart of gold, and chest hair that your fingers would die to run through. Who plays his love life even closer to the vest than he plays his cards, keeps a very jealous crossbow, and who is now by far the dearest friend I have ever had."

The rogue shook her head and sighed heavily. "It's a curse."

She brightened. "Now let's get down to the docks and collect the rest of our earnings, shall we?"

**-ooo-**

While they made their way through Kirkwall's many levels to the docks, Hawke told Shepard about the lands of Thedas; about the Fifth Blight and her family's flight from Ferelden, and about the blight's subsequent end a year later. She told Shepard about the Gray Wardens, the Orlesian chevaliers, and the Templar Order. She skimmed over the Exalted Marches, the war with the qunari, and the Llomerryn Accord.

By the time they were threading between stevedores in the western warehouse district of the docks, Hawke was describing the various factions in Kirkwall.

"So what's the difference between the Coterie and the Carta?" Shepard pressed.

"The Carta controls smuggling in and out of Orzammar. Lyrium and dwarven-crafted armor and weapons from the city, and things like fine wines, Orlesian silks, and Antivan leather into it." Hawke made a face. "They've got a stranglehold on it. Not even the Coterie can get a piece of that action, although they try. By and large, the Coterie control most of the rest of disorganized crime in Kirkwall."

Near the end of the docks, hard by the entrance to a fish factory, was Hawke's contact for the mage underground job. While the rogue spoke to her contact, Shepard drifted slightly apart, to where a shifty looking man wore the universal expression of someone selling things that just happened to have fallen off the back of a transport. Curiously, Shepard moved closer.

"I've got goods, if you've got coin and a lack of questions," he murmured to her.

Shepard gave a slight shrug. "Sure."

The man opened a chest at his feet.

As Shepard shifted a dented cuirass, her body stiffened. Carefully, she lifted out a set of dark charcoal colored greaves.

"How much for this crap?" she asked, trying to keep her voice disinterested.

The man gave her an appraising look. "Sixty silver," he said.

"Do you have more of it? I'd prefer something that matches."

"Got some gauntlets and vambraces somewhere," the man pawed through a second chest. "Here," he threw them down next to the greaves.

"Sixty for the lot," stated Shepard.

"Eighty-five for the lot."

"Nug-shit," said Hawke, coming up on Shepard's left. "It's not even metal. "Forty."

"Seventy-five."

Shepard leaned in to the man. "I'm not interested in haggling. Sixty for the lot, and you're going to tell me where I can find the rest of it."

The man licked his lips nervously. "I told you, no questions."

Shepard casually removed the leather from her right hand and slipped it into one of the dark gray and black gauntlets before her. She held up the hand and flexed her fingers in front of the fence's pale face.

"_Perfect_ _fit_, wouldn't you say?" she said softly, not taking her eyes off of his.

The man swallowed hard. "Downstairs." He nodded at a grating cover a few meters away. "At night. Talk to Bonny Lem."

Shepard counted out some coins. "Thank you. You've been very helpful."

She turned to go, and the man let out a breath and relaxed. Shepard spun back suddenly, causing the fence to leap back in surprise. "You see anything else that looks like this," she tapped the armor meaningfully, "anything else that looks _odd_, you set it aside for me. You'll get paid, and you'll get to keep what's left of your teeth. You got that?"

"Yeah. I got it."

"And don't even think of mentioning this to your pal Lem. Trust me, I can make you wish you'd never been born."

**-ooo-**

Shepard took Anders with her that evening on her recovery mission. Hawke was tied up with Aveline's twisted courtship rituals, which both Isabela and Varric - being habitues of the Hanged Man - were eager to witness. Newly cognizant of Kirkwall's seedy underbelly, Shepard decided she'd rather have backup, just in case she was walking into a trap.

She needn't have worried.

The passageway beneath the docks was poorly lit by flickering torches that gave off more smoke than light, but that didn't seem to be a deterrent. Many people cluttered the passageway - mostly elves and humans, but Shepard saw a few dwarves as well - all sharing one thing: desperation. Shepard recognized the scene - she'd seen it on Earth, on the Citadel, and all over Omega. This place was about wants and needs that could not be filled anyplace else. Or perhaps anywhere at all.

They found Bonny Lem on an upper level operating out of a few chests like the fence in the docks above. For people like Lem and the fence, it paid to be portable.

Shepard wasted no time.

"Familiar?" she asked, holding up her right hand and turning it lazily like a pageant queen. Then her hand shot out and grabbed Lem by the throat - another lesson from the streets; clothes were too easily wriggled out of. "I want the rest."

The man went up slightly in Shepard's estimation when he didn't try to play ignorant, outraged, or tough. "I have a few pieces," he said. "But I can't guarantee I have all that you need."

"Run, and you will _regret it_."

Shepard's estimation gave another grudging inch when he managed a half-smile and said, "I'm old enough and fat enough that I have no desire to run from anybody."

She released his throat. Lem raised one hand to rub his neck gingerly, and turned to the second of his crates. "Another fellow got a few pieces, and I hear that Coterie harridan Elsie got the boots." His hands sorted rapidly through his stock - it was clear he knew every item and how it was packed - and he began removing pieces. Shoulder guards, backplate and miniframe, the wad of her skinsuit, and finally, the cracked and battered chestplate with its small, two digit insignia.

Shepard's fingers itched to touch it.

"Two sovereigns," the man said firmly. "And don't try to haggle, or to threaten. I know what I have here - I'm not just a simple two-bit thieves' dumping ground. This stuff is harder than steel, and light as leather. An' I expect it would fit you like that glove," he nodded at her right hand.

"Anders?" Shepard asked, her eyes not leaving Lem's face. "Is this man trying to cheat me?"

Although Shepard couldn't see his expression, the mage raised his eyebrows. "I suspect he's leveraging it slightly, but if the armor is what he says it is - Andraste's tits, if it's _your_ armor - then I'd say that two sovereigns is probably a reasonable expectation."

Shepard tossed him the small cloth bag she'd been using as a coin purse. "See what I've got."

Anders counted through it quickly. "You're short by…let's see… seventeen silver," he announced.

"Go see Varric. Ask him if I can borrow twenty silver."

Anders sighed. "No need," he said. "I've got it." His fingers slipped into his belt, and withdrew a handful of silver pieces. He brought Shepard's purse up to the full two sovereigns and placed it back in her hand.

She hefted it for a moment and then closed her hand around it. "Before we close this little deal," she said to Lem, "you're going to tell me where to find this Elsie."

Lem shrugged. "She's Coterie - try Darktown."

"Not good enough," Shepard grated. "You said yourself, you're not some simple two-bit thieves' dumping ground. I suspect you have a few contacts in the Coterie."

The portly man gave her an appraising look. "Elsie runs with a fellow named Brekker. His patch is off the eastern part of Darktown. Couldn't be much more specific than that."

Shepard nodded and threw him the pouch, slinging Anders' old string market bag off her shoulder and bundling her armor into it.

"A word of caution, serah - Elsie's as mean as they come, and if you try to buy those boots off 'er she'll rob you blind and stupid over them. And if you try to take them off 'er, you'll have Brekker and his fellows to deal with."

Shepard smiled. "I think she'll see reason."

Lem gave her a doubtful look, but said nothing.

Anders was also giving her a doubtful look, and he held his tongue until they were pushing up the grating near the harbormaster's office. "I hope you know what you're doing, Shepard. Two against a horde of Coterie thugs aren't very good odds, even if one of them's a mage and the other's death on two legs."

Shepard chuckled. "Trust me, Anders, that bitch will walk away from my boots without a drop of blood being shed."

"You're planning on borrowing a king's ransom from Varric, then, are you?"

"Or a single copper changing hands."

"Why do I have the sudden urge to visit the privy…"

**-ooo-**

Shepard insisted on stopping by the Hanged Man before they returned to Darktown.

"Because," she responded when he questioned her about it, "it's got marginally better lighting than your clinic, and you want an ale."

As Anders couldn't argue with that logic, he agreed.

They learned from Varric and Isabela that Hawke's intervention had backfired when Aveline panicked and refused to come out of the barrel room, and that Donnic now believed that Hawke was interested in him. He'd also, in his mistaken summation of the evening's events, turned Hawke down flat.

"So Hawke took the remains of her dignity and her bruised ego down to the Rose for a bottle of wine and quote-unquote _someone who thinks I'm pretty_," Varric said.

"I don't know what she's talking about," said Isabela, loftily. "I think she's pretty. She knows I think she's pretty."

"I think you may be missing some essentials, Rivaini," Varric said delicately. "Also, she'd had a lot of ale."

Isabela shrugged. "It's never stopped her before. Hawke's always been partial to a bit of girly fun now and then."

Shepard finished laying out her armor and began inspecting it, piece by piece. "Poor Hawke," she said with a sympathetic grin. "She was lamenting today that she's surrounded by untouchable men."

"Untouchable?" snorted Varric. "Nonsense. She can't keep her hands off the chest hair when she's had a few. I swear, when she gets drunk, Hawke is almost as handsy as Rivaini."

"Thanks," huffed Isabela. "A lot."

"I told you it was going to end badly," Shepard said. "What happened to Aveline?"

"Oh, she went off in a sulk after Hawke forced her to arrange an intimate tete-a-tete with Donnic or face Rivaini bedding the man herself."

"Really?" asked Anders. "And that worked?"

"Yep. We're all going to the seaside tomorrow to clear out all the bandits so that Aveline's flailing won't be interrupted by any stray arrows when the two are on patrol."

Shepard frowned as she ran her fingers over the left shoulder guard of her armor. "Patrol? I thought you said something about an intimate tete-a-tete?"

Varric gave her a look. "This is Aveline we're talking about, Shepard."

"I only just met her this morning. And we weren't even properly introduced," Shepard protested.

The dwarf put his head on one side. "You know, Shepard, I keep forgetting you've only been here a few days. It seems like it's been much longer." He grinned. "I also forget that you have no idea how much we gossip amongst ourselves. Aveline's known about you from the beginning."

"You were out for a few days while I was healing you," Anders said. "We didn't know who you were, so we asked Aveline to look into it - you know, see if there were any people reported missing, that sort of thing."*****

"And nobody claimed me as their long-lost heir? Damn." Shepard scanned the damaged pieces of armor with her omni-tool, and brought up the results, pouring over them carefully.

Something caught Varric's eye, and he leaned over the table to get a better look.

"Well I'll be a nug-humping dirt farmer," he said, brushing his fingers over the chestpiece.

Shepard grinned at him. "What," she teased, "never seen one of those shaped to fit before?"

"Funny," he answered dryly. "But I'm not concerned with the ways you exaggerate your breast size."

"No," he went on. "This." His fingers lingered just beneath the collar.

Anders leaned forward as well. "N7," he said with a shrug. "So?"

Varric settled back in his chair. "Makes sense. I guess I just wasn't expecting to see it. I don't know whether it deepens the mystery or solves it."

Shepard scowled at the information flickering on her omni-tool.

_Fuck. I'm going to need some raw materials if I'm going to fix the chestpiece - it's in bad shape. I can paper over the cracks, but it's not going to withstand a whole lot more stress unless I get my hands on something I can break down to do the job properly._

She blinked as her brain nudged her with its multitasking notes. "What mystery?"

Varric smiled widely. "Why, N7, of course."

Shepard gave him a puzzled glance. "What about it?" She selected the armor repair protocol and began running the omni-tool over the less damaged pieces.

"I know that N7 _means_ kicking ass, taking names, doing the job in front of you, and holding the line. What I don't know is what the hell N7 really _is_."

"Wait…" Shepard paused in the repair process. "Holding the line?" She shifted uncomfortably. "_Please_ don't tell me I said anything about holding the line…"

"You did," Varric confirmed with a grin. "Just before you passed out."

Shepard raised her eyes to the ceiling. "Argh!" she yelled. "Kirrahe, you _bastard_!"

"Oooh," said Isabela coyly, "someone we should know about?"

"Just some salarian…" Shepard paused, "_cloaca_… who better hope I never make it home," she said from between clenched teeth, restarting the repair protocol.

"Why did you call him a bird's asshole?" Anders asked in confusion.

"Consider it a… pet name. Also, appropriate."

"Now, now," Varric admonished. "No changing the subject. I want to know what N7 is."

Shepard shrugged. "It's my Alliance vocational designation."

Anders frowned. "I thought you were a commander."

"Commander - well, Lieutenant Commander - is just my rank. N7 is what I _am_."

"Enlightening as the bottom of a deep shaft, Shepard," Varric grumbled.

Shepard continued to process her damaged armor, and sighed. "All right. Alliance military personnel - of which I am… _was_… one - have a two digit vocational code that describes, oh, call it a career path in the military. The first digit indicates what kind of work you do, and the second indicates your level of… _expertise_, I suppose you could say."

"So N stands for what? Killing people? Scaring the piss out of them?"

Shepard chuckled. "Not a bad summation, Manliness. N designates special forces."

"What kind of special forces?" the question came from Isabela and Anders simultaneously; in one case laced with curiosity and in the other case with innuendo.

"Not those kind of _forces_," laughed Shepard. "It means being… an elite soldier."

"Wait, Shepard… did you just call me _Manliness_?" Varric's voice was tinged with disbelief.

"I did," she flashed the dwarf a wicked glance. "I heard that, thanks to Isabela's letter writing campaign, you are now set to become the official paragon of manliness."

"Huh," said the dwarf, looking thoughtful. "I never thought I'd see the day when somebody would turn my own tricks against me."

"_N7_," Shepard reminded him. "N-_fucking_-7."

**-ooo-**

"At least they washed it," Shepard groused as she and Anders moved through the tunnels of Darktown toward its eastern perimeter.

"Are you sure about this?" Anders asked doubtfully.

"Of course I'm sure about it. I want my damn boots back."

Anders ran his eyes over Shepard's body. Although the banded leather had clung more tightly to her figure, Anders thought that somehow, the woman looked… sleeker… in the charcoal plates. She certainly looked deadlier.

His eyes stuttered when they reached her feet, cased in the incongruous brown leather. Yes, he could certainly see why she wanted her boots back. Her feet looked positively naked.

It wasn't long before they were accosted by two thugs loitering by a doorway. Anders stunned them with a mind blast and Shepard put them down with forensic looking blows to the back of the head, dragging them into a dark corner to sleep it off.

"Hopefully, it won't be far now," Shepard told him. "You clear on the plan?"

Anders nodded. "You're going to hide and follow me while I march _straight _into the lion's den like a sacrificial… _sacrifice_," he said. "If anyone asks, I'm to tell them that… _Maker_… that a Coterie runner had come to the clinic and gave me the message to come because someone named Elsie was sick."

Shepard crossed her arms on her chest. "You don't think it will work?"

Anders snorted. "I'm more afraid it will work, and I'll be stuck with a very mean, very angry, very not-sick Elsie, who will soon blame me for losing her boots."

"She won't blame… okay, well, she _might_ blame you. But you'll be long gone before she makes the connection."

"You're not filling me with confidence, Shepard."

"Suck it up, mage."

With a little flicker, Shepard was gone. Groaning, Anders continued on.

**-ooo-**

Shepard had been right. The plan worked perfectly. Unfortunately, Anders was also right. He'd had to face a very mean, very angry woman demanding to know who he thought he was and why he thought there was anything wrong with her.

But he was the Darktown healer, and Elsie had eventually been backed down by a man she'd called Wake, who'd pointed out that it might not be a good idea to offend the healer that one day she might need. She'd grumbled and groused that the Coterie had their own mages, but the simple fact was that the mage in Darktown was known to be the best healer in the whole blasted city, and Wake had a point.

Anders allowed himself to be shown out of Brekker's territory (but not before dispensing a salve for a very embarrassing condition to one of the thugs), and made his way back to the clinic. He treated a teenaged boy and girl for a rash that looked suspiciously like it had been caused by itchweed, and refrained from asking how it managed to wind up in_ those_ anatomical locales, though he slipped the girl a packet of tea to prevent pregnancy. He tore up some old linen that had been brought to him by a former patient into strips that could be used for bandages. He mixed up some new batches of common ointments and salves he used frequently. He…

… leapt out of his skin when Shepard materialized beside him.

"Andraste's knickerweasels, Shepard!" he gasped. "You could kill a man!"

She grinned widely. "Hate to tell you, Anders, but I already have."

Anders' eyes dropped to her feet, which were now encased in the heavy boots he'd last seen on the very irritated Elsie.

He narrowed his eyes. "How many people did you have to kill?"

Shepard shook her head, her eyes sparkling. "None. I told you - she walked away from them voluntarily."

Anders folded his arms on his chest. "What? Did you urinate on them or something?"

Still grinning, Shepard sat on the edge of a cot and removed the boots, tucking them under her arm. Gently, she took Anders arm and led him out of the clinic and up some stairs, halting before a large sheet of rusting iron fastened to the wall.

"Are you watching?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Are you sure you're watching?"

"Yes, I'm watching."

"Good." And then Shepard made a… a _sound_. Something between a snort and a giggle and a hiss.

And let go of the boots.

With a loud clang, the soles of the boots hit the metal and stuck there.

"Go ahead," Shepard told him, nodding at the boots. "Pick them up." This time, the noise she made was something between a snort and a wheeze.

Cautiously, Anders reached out and touched one of the boots, then wrapped his hand around it and tugged gently.

The boot did not move.

Surprised, he gave a firmer tug.

The boot remained firmly fastened to the iron.

He wrapped a second hand around it and tried pulling up just the heel.

The boot came free, and just as quickly stuck itself again.

Shepard roared with laughter.

"The case of the cursed mag-boots," she chortled, wiping her eyes. "You should have seen her face!"

Experimentally, Anders peeled the boots free a few more times.

"It's like lodestone, isn't it?" he asked finally.

"Yep," Shepard replied. "I turned them on remotely, just as she sat down in front of a guy wearing a plate cuirass." She dissolved in laughter again. "Then I just had to wait until everyone stopped hitting each other and she threw the boots - and the guy's cuirass - across the room.

She touched something on the glowing orange field around her left hand, and the boots fell to the ground. Then she picked them up, tucked them back under her arm, and, still chuckling, picked her way back toward the clinic.

Smiling, Anders shook his head, and followed.

* * *

_*****For PassiveResistance, for calling me on it! :)_

_A/N: Before anyone mentions it, I am fully aware of the exact nature of a cloaca, as well as the variety of species which have one. I just thought that "bird's asshole" would be a concise layman's viewpoint.  
_

_Thanks for the reviews. I appreciate the time people take to write them. I **love** the fact that there seem to be so many people out there enjoying my creative waste of time. I think I've become a stats whore.  
_

_On another topic..._

_I know I said I wasn't going to do this, but it's driving me slightly mad. Well, madder. _

_A lot of you have said you wanted to see Shepard get her 'equipment' back. But originally, I only gave her the Mantis sniper rifle as a plot device - apart from her omni-tool, she wasn't going to have anything. This is because I was trying to do two things - first, to keep Shepard balanced with the other characters (face it, with an assault rifle, she'd be a freakin' GOD OF DEATH), and second, to keep as close to canon as possible. In the two playthroughs I've done on ME3, Shep doesn't have anything but her pistol when she confronts the Catalyst. No armor, no other weapons, nuthin'. Of course, my bloody EMS is never high enough for her to live through the bloody thing, AND the DLC came out, so... I could be wrong. It could be sunshine and kittens, too.  
_

_ANYway... I thought about it a little and decided to go ahead and let Shepard have her armor back. Why? Because if I can allow one plot device, I can allow two. And besides, otherwise she'd have to have someone embroider and/or etch _**N7**_ into her leather or plate mail._

_Just don't expect to see anything else. No pistols, shotguns, smgs, assault rifles, grenade launchers, and no motherfucking Cain. _

_Sorry to disappoint._

_Hopefully, you will still enjoy the story.  
_

_Oh, and, since I'm doing what I said I wouldn't do, I might as well add this: No characters will be harmed in the making of this story. At least, not permanently. With the possible exception of Brennan. Never did like that chick. (In other words, no I will not be bashing any one character - except Brennan, that weaselly little bitch - save for what I honestly think the story calls for.)  
_

_We now return you to your regularly scheduled line break.  
_


	16. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen**

"Oh, this is just _agonizing_…" Shepard groaned.

"_Maker_, she's bad at this," Hawke agreed.

Shepard and what Shepard was starting to think of as the _rogue squad_ - Hawke, Varric and Isabela - were on the Wounded Coast following one of the city guard's patrol routes. Some distance behind them was the actual city guard patrol, consisting of Donnic and Aveline. Aveline was supposed to be initiating romantic conversation, or at least _leading up_ to the _possibility_ of romantic conversation. Hell, Shepard would have been all for the direct approach - Aveline just admitting she was interested and seeing what Donnic did with the information. Instead, she was babbling about _blades_. And without a hint of innuendo, much to Isabela's disappointment.

"Maybe a bandit will get lucky and kill me before I have to witness any more of this floundering," Shepard said ruefully.

"With that armor?" Varric scoffed. "Not bloody likely."

Shepard grinned at him. "You know, I actually used to hate this armor. I thought it was hot and uncomfortable, except in temperatures below freezing. Then I thought it was cold and uncomfortable."

"I think it's kind of sexy," said Isabela.

"Is there anything you don't think is sexy, Rivaini?"

Isabela pondered for a moment. "Abominations," she said. "Oh, and people who talk with their mouth full."

"Fair enough."

They continued along the path, dealing with a few scattered encampments of bandits and raiders along the way.

"Why don't they run away?" Shepard grumbled, swinging her omni-blade in a backhanded arc to eviscerate one bandit and letting the momentum carry her into a spinning kick that knocked down another. Fluidly, she sank to one knee, thrusting her blade into the downed man's throat.

"They're bandits, Shepard. If they had to think they wouldn't _be_ bandits," Varric quipped, firing a triplet of arrows into an oncoming charge.

"What would they be?" Hawke asked, slicing her daggers in a complex figure-eight that caused her opponent to stagger. Deftly, she reversed her grip and drove them into his chest.

"Merchants."

"Oooh, and those puffy Orlesian pantaloons," said Isabela, sidestepping a bandit and crushing his kneecap with her boot. As he went down, she whipped one hand down and the other to one side, sending her daggers flying; the first sinking deep into the back of the crippled bandit's neck, and the second burying itself to the hilt in the belly of the last bandit standing.

"Rivaini?"

Isabela blinked, bending down to retrieve her knives. "Something else I don't think is sexy. Puffy Orlesian pantaloons."

"Good to know."

Varric and Shepard lit the last signal fire on the patrol route, while Isabela and Hawke quickly checked the corpses for valuables.

Aveline still had not managed to bring the conversation around to anything more intimate than the weather.

"That's it," Hawke said firmly, planting herself in the center of the pathway with her arms folded across her chest. When Aveline and Donnic finally came around the bend in the path, they were face to face with the stern expression of a woman about to deliver an ultimatum.

"Hawke? What a surprise. What are you doing here?" Aveline asked, panic beginning to suffuse her features.

"Aveline…" Hawke's tone was uncompromising.

The Guard-Captain shifted from foot to foot uneasily. "Hawke… don't." There was a note of pleading in Aveline's voice.

"We don't have all night, you know." Exasperation and a hint of scolding.

Donnic looked from one woman to the other, and then to the tired, hot, and dirty squad. "Would someone please tell me what's going on?"

"I'll make it easy for you," Varric said, and turned to Donnic. "I'm going to draw you a picture of where she wants to touch you."

"You're a daft couple of…" Isabela huffed. "Take a hint and bend her over a basin, will you!"

"Captain?" Donnic gave Aveline a look comprised of equal parts discomfort and uncertainty. "I… should get back to the barracks." Stiffly, he turned and hurried away.

Aveline's eyes were angry. "I thought we were _friends_," she hissed.

Hawke's eyes narrowed. "Friends sometimes push," she said flatly.

"I… I have to fix this," Aveline announced, her body tensing with growing panic. "He'll file a complaint - ask for a transfer…"

"You!" she snapped, stabbing a finger at Hawke. "You're coming to the barracks to explain why you put him on the spot!"

"He hasn't gotten anywhere _near_ the spot," Isabela argued with a smirk. "That's the problem."

"Shut up, whore."

**-ooo-**

While Hawke dealt with Aveline and her unnecessarily complicated love affair, Shepard wandered the Hightown market, hoping she'd just stumble upon what she was looking for without the embarrassment of having to ask for it. However, there appeared to be only one market stall that even came close, and after shifting through the tailor's wares - heavy robes, for the most part - Shepard was faced with looming defeat.

_I should have asked Isabela when I had the chance. There's a woman with a corsetiere in her back pocket. If she had pockets...  
_

The thought of Isabela opened another possible avenue of inquiry, and Shepard directed her steps to the Blooming Rose.

_Ha! If whores can't tell me where to find lingere in this godforsaken city, no one can._

Inside, Shepard accosted the first scantily-dressed figure she came across, a delicate elven girl with short, dark hair and large, slanted hazel eyes.

"Excuse me," was as far as Shepard got before the elf cut her off.

"I'm sorry, but I'm booked solid for the day," the whore growled in a raspy masculine baritone. "You'll have to try me some other time."

Slowly, Shepard regained control of her jaw and closed it. "Could you just direct me to the… er… madam?" she mumbled.

The elf gestured to a richly dressed older woman with graying hair and flawless makeup. When Shepard approached her, the woman's eyes raked over her like a volus banker over the day's market figures. The very corners of the madam's lips moved in a smile, but there was nothing but hardness in her eyes.

Shepard decided she really didn't want to waste time with this.

"Look," she said abruptly. "All I need is the name of a tailor who can make decent lingere… er... underclothing. That's all."

One of the madam's eyebrows twitched slightly. The motion seemed to say, _You? Lingere?_

Shepard answered it with a flat stare.

Madam Lusine prided herself on her ability to read people. And what she read in the dark green eyes of the woman in charcoal armor was_ trouble_. More than Lusine wanted to deal with.

"I doubt you could afford our seamstress," she said shortly. "However, there is an elven dressmaker in the alienage who does _inexpensive_ work."

The words and tone rankled Shepard, but she wrestled the impulse to respond. The quest for a bra and panties took priority. _Chafing_ failed to express her discomfort.

"If I'm ever in the market for an embarrassing venereal disease, I will be sure to patronize your… _delightful…_ establishment again."

_Damn_.

Shepard turned on her heel and stalked away before her attitude could impede her mission any further. As she stepped out into the red light district, she nearly collided with a broad, red-painted chest.

Shepard brought up her right hand and sidestepped deftly, managing to avoid jostling the giant. Instead of progressing into the brothel, however, the chest swung to follow her movement.

She looked up into the impassive face.

"The Arishok will see you now," the qunari rasped at her.

Shepard folded her arms on her chest. "Will he, now?"

The giant mirrored her action. "Yes."

"And if it's not convenient at this time?" Shepard frowned.

Somehow, the lack of any emotion on the rugged face was more expressive than words would have been.

"You know, the Arishok could stand to learn the meaning of _an appointment_."

It was like arguing with a statue.

Shepard sighed. "All right." Her brow furrowed. "What's your name, soldier? _Hey you_ gets awkward by the third time you use it."

The giant dropped his arms. "I am Ashaad," he said simply, heading for the nearby stairwell.

"Private Ashaad? Specialist First Class Ashaad? Smile Monitor Ashaad?" Shepard fell in beside him. She had no intention of being _led_ anywhere this time.

"No."

"No rank?"

There was just the tiniest bit of what might be a huff of impatience. "_Ashaad_."

"Ah. Were you the one who came to get me last time?" Try as she might, Shepard could not tell. She could easily distinguish between salarians, between turians and krogan and drell, and she had gotten pretty good at identifying quarians and vols by their voices and mannerisms - hell, Shepard could even sometimes distinguish between individual vorcha - but the qunari were a challenge. Only the damned hanar were worse.

"You have eyes, basra, do you not?"

_They're not a lot of use when it looks like there's some factory somewhere that stamps out horned humanoids by the dozens!_

Well, she wasn't going to say _that_, was she? "I was not at my best that day," she temporized.

Ashaad, or, perhaps, _the _Ashaad, swiveled his eyes in her direction briefly. "You shot my arrow," he grunted, "on the day of your trespass."

Shepard's eyes flicked to the longbow over his shoulder. _Ah. Yes._

"Shepard," she said.

The Ashaad turned his head slightly in her direction, the faintest of creases on his brow.

"My name. Commander Shepard vas Normandy," she clarified.

He made no response, merely continued on his chosen path to the docks. She was having to use her _impatient stride_ to keep pace with the giant, but she sure as hell wasn't going to ask him to slow down.

At least she wasn't fighting the urge to paint the walls this time.

They completed the rest of the journey in silence. As a species, Shepard decided, the qunari made a concrete wall seem charming and loquacious.

The Arishok received her at his usual spot on the high bench.

_Ah… feeling formal today, are we?_

Shepard took up parade rest, feet slightly apart, hips and shoulders square, hands clasped loosely in the small of her back. She offered him a tiny inclination of her head.

"Arishok."

"Basra," he rumbled.

Nothing more was said.

_And now we're on to Round Two… the staredown. You may have sensed weakness the last time we met, you bastard, but try me_ now_ - when I _haven't_ been extensively sampling the local version of ryncol._

Finally, the Arishok tilted his head slightly. "Your armor is new… _and_ old."

"Yes. It had been… stolen… when I arrived here."

His eyes narrowed. "You allowed it to be taken from you?"

Shepard's eyes narrowed as well. "I was unconscious - dying - at the time," she said dryly.

"Yet you live."

"Hawke." Shepard didn't see any need to elaborate further.

The Arishok got to his feet. For a time, he merely stood before his bench, watching her with hooded eyes.

_For such a massive creature, he's certainly graceful. James moves like a fucking tank. And Wrex and Grunt like a pair of landslides._

Slowly, he walked down the stairs. "And you bear your weapon," he noted with faint approval, coming to a halt about a meter away.

"This armor allows me to carry it properly."

There was another long silence. Another long clash of eye contact.

The Arishok stepped closer. Shepard tipped her head back while projecting as much authority as she could. She would not let him use his size to make her seem submissive. _Fuck, _no_._

He inhaled slowly. One brow twitched.

_That's right. Gun oil, titanium alloy, and every battle I've ever fought._

The brows drew downward slightly. Moving with the carefully calculated deliberation of one armed soldier making contact with another armed soldier, he reached one taloned hand forward and placed it on her chest.

Behind her back, Shepard's hands tightened, her top hand clenching into a fist. She endeavored to express herself with a look.

_You'd better have a damn good reason for breaking my personal envelope, buddy._

He curled one finger and tapped it against the chestpiece.

"It is not metal. Nor is it hide, nor wood," he rumbled.

"You have gunpowder. Artillery. Chemical warfare," she replied.

The Arishok's eyes snapped back to her face. She could still feel the slight pressure of his hand where it rested just below her throat.

"You are… unusual, basra."

His hand slipped away, and he turned. "But you are not of the qun."

Shepard took a deep breath, her jaw bunching as she ground her teeth together. "Okay. Military secrets. I can respect that. So what _can_ you tell me?"

The Arishok paused, his back still to her. "You claim you come from the lands beyond Thedas," he said. He revolved to face her once again. "This land is known to us." His eyes pierced hers fiercely. "It is not possible."

The corner of Shepard's mouth quirked upward. "You're wrong. I did _not_ claim to come from the lands beyond Thedas."

The Arishok's expression darkened. Shepard held up one hand to forestall any outburst.

"I simply said I'm not _from_ Thedas. I did not specify where."

The Arishok's lips thinned. "This is not possible," he repeated.

Shepard tilted her head to one side slightly, dropping parade rest and shifting her weight to one hip casually, folding her arms across her chest. "Do you have astronomers in Par Vollen?"

By the faint twitch in his expression, Shepard guessed that, if they did, they weren't called such.

"People who study the stars, the sun, the moon… Chart the way they travel in the sky, the way they are bright or dim, their colors, their names."

He studied her with interest for a moment. "Yes."

Her mouth quirked again. "Good. You use the stars to navigate by, I imagine?"

He did not answer. His eyes merely weighed her. _Is there a point to this…?_ they seemed to say.

"For me to tell you where I'm from, I would need to see every star chart you have, every one you could get your hands on. Then I'd have to cross reference them with every star chart I have, and see if there's any overlap. And then, maybe, just _maybe_, I could show you what's _possible_."

Those golden eyes bored into her. "You… are not lying, basra." It was a statement, not a question.

"I don't lie very often," she answered. "Although I don't always tell the truth."

He grunted.

"Come," he said, moving away. "There is something I wish to see."

Shepard straightened and followed the giant. Unlike her trip with the Ashaad, Shepard made no attempt to keep up with the Arishok. Instead, she chose to follow him at her own pace; the comfortable strides she took when she was simply prowling the Normandy's corridors.

He led her to a familiar place. She'd watched him here from a rooftop perch through her rifle's scope.

_So he wants to _dance_…_

The Arishok gestured with one massive hand. "You may safely lay your weapon there, and select another." The sweep of his hand encompassed a large and tidy rack of wooden practice weapons. "You will retain your armor."

Shepard gave him a lazy grin. She crossed to the rack, reaching over her shoulder to pull Garrus from his magnetic clips, and set him gently between two notches. Then she turned back to the Arishok.

"You do not choose a weapon?" he asked incredulously. "The... _madness_ of you bas."

_I'm probably going to _hate_ myself for this later…_

"I have my weapons," she replied, rolling her shoulders and cracking her knuckles.

Did she imagine those lips twitched slightly?

The Arishok turned his head and spoke a few words to one of his soldiers. Shepard was pretty sure it wasn't the Ashaad - this one was carrying a very heavy spear on his back. He moved to the rack and put the spear carefully in place, taking a wooden replica of the same.

_Oho… it's like that, is it? Think you're too good to face me?_

Shepard's eyes narrowed slightly, but she took her position in the ring. The soldier took up position opposite.

She gave him a short nod.

He charged.

**-ooo-**

"_If your opponent rushes to engage you, let him. Keep just enough distance between you that he must continue his movements. You will conserve your energy while he wastes his."_

_Thane lurked just outside her threat range, taunting her with his nearness._

"_If he carries a weapon - a stick, a club, a knife - encourage him to use it. A weapon in motion is easier to track than one that is still."_

_The bamboo shinai suddenly whistled through the air, catching Shepard in the shoulder._

_Thane clucked his tongue. "You must keep your weight on the balls of your feet, siha, always. Allow your body to move with the weapon as it moves."_

_The shinai came again, slightly slower this time. As it traveled down, Shepard tried to sync her body to its motion, turning herself sideways as it sliced through the place she'd just been._

"_Better, siha." The bamboo snapped out again and struck the side of her shin. "Do not shuffle."_

"_Ow!"_

_Thane smiled. "I will kiss it later, siha."_

_Shepard backed prudently out of range and stuck her tongue out at him._

_With breathtaking speed, Thane was charging her. Shepard stumbled as she backpedaled, caught herself, and slipped to the drell's left. He pivoted, heel lashing for her head. She ducked, closing with him, hoping to catch him off-balance from the kick. Instead, he seemed to melt away from her, her every movement countered by one of his._

"_Think of it as a dance, siha. One leads, one follows. One moves. _Always_ be ready to move, siha. Even when your opponent is standing still."_

_He stopped, stock still. Shepard paused warily, licking her lips and shifting her weight to the balls of her feet._

_The shinai cut the air. Startled, Shepard bounced on her toes, trying to dodge…_

_It cracked against her head, curved around, and caught her shoulder. As she threw up her forearms to shield the sides of her head, it curved again and stopped, centimeters from the hollow of her throat._

_Thane stared down the bamboo at her. "Perhaps," he said thoughtfully, "it would be best if I first taught you how to dance."_

**-ooo-**

As the qunari barreled toward her, practice spear at the ready, Shepard slid to his right, following his movement as the giant tried to pivot and face her. He rolled his shoulder and swung the staff of the spear over his head and around, attempting to catch Shepard as she danced just outside arm's reach.

Shepard matched the spear's motion, catching the giant's ribs with her foot. He grunted in surprise and brought the butt of the spear back in a jab, but Shepard rolled easily out of the way.

The qunari soldier was faster than she'd expected, but he didn't seem to be a particularly quick learner. Either that, or he had simply been conditioned to always remain on the offensive, to pursue a target with single-minded determination. Shepard hovered in a middle range - just out of reach of his hands or a kick, but beguilingly within distance of a spear attack.

For fighting a well-armored opponent like Shepard, the spear was a bad idea. Attempting a stab or jab required that she stay put to meet his attack, or for him to anticipate where she was going to be before she moved. Even a slight deflection of her body made such an attack ineffective, the wooden blade glancing off the ceramic plating. Swinging the spear like a staff was even worse, as Shepard was quick to take any opening for a body shot, concentrating her strikes on the more sensitive flesh over the lower ribs. When no opportunity for a strike to the ribs presented itself, Shepard focused on the giant's knees. One of the first things she'd ever learned as a kid was that however big the guy in front of you was, he was only as strong as his legs. She'd won more than her fair share of bare knuckle contests by a war of attrition focused on some muscle-bound jerk's knees.

She was sweating under her armor, enough to where the skinsuit couldn't quite keep up with the perspiration. A bead trickled down her spine, familiar as a lover's caress. The qunari wore no armor. Perhaps allowing her to keep her armor was supposed to be a handicap of some sort, but whether to her or to her opponent was uncertain. If they'd hoped to slow her down or wear her out, they were in for a surprise. She'd fought thresher maws and Reapers on foot in this armor. She might complain about it, but it was as much a part of her as her skin.

The qunari was also in excellent condition. If Shepard hoped to wear _him_ down with constant movement, she was going to have to wait a very long time indeed. But breathing couldn't be comfortable at this point - not with his ribs already beginning to darken under the warpaint.

**-ooo-**

"_If your enemy has made his weapon part of himself, all the better. If it is an extension of his body, use it as such."_

_Shepard held the shinai in both hands, weight balanced lightly on the balls of her feet as Thane had taught her. As he darted in with a left jab, Shepard stepped nimbly to one side, bringing the shinai up in a sweeping motion, using the bamboo blade to knock his hand away. More blows followed, with Shepard dodging and blocking in a fluid series of motions. To her surprise, Thane suddenly took a hold of the shinai's hilt, jerking the practice blade toward himself. Shepard's hands tightened around the leather reflexively, the muscles in her arms stiffening involuntarily in opposition. _

_That moment's tension was all the assassin needed to reverse the shinai in her grip, pressing the bamboo toward the side of her neck. As she struggled to regain control of the blade, Thane caught the back of her ankle with his foot, sweeping her neatly. One minute she was upright, the contested shinai in her hands; the next, she was on her back, looking up the length of it at Thane, holding it firmly in one hand._

"_Do not throw away a weapon needlessly, but do not let it have a stranglehold on you, either. A weapon is not worth your life, siha."_

_Shepard scowled up at him. "I hate you right now."_

_The drell chuckled richly and reached down to help her up. When she grasped his hand, he gave a sharp tug, pulling her to her feet and against his chest. He bent his head to hers. "I think not, siha," he murmured as his mouth claimed hers._

**-ooo-**

Shepard paused for a moment, offering the giant an opening, and he took it, jabbing with the speed of a striking snake. She pivoted her body sideways and dropped one hand to the spear shaft, closing her hand around it as the qunari began to draw it back. She followed the motion, adding her body weight to the spear's momentum, continuing the movement beyond the point the qunari intended. At the same time, she added a sideways and upward component to the end of the spear, drawing the head away from the giant's body. Shepard locked her second hand around the shaft and jerked sharply just before the butt of the spear made contact with the back of the soldier's knee, using the qunari's own hand as a fulcrum for additional leverage.

The giant's knee buckled and he went over backward. Shepard continued the spin of the spear, twisting it out of the qunari's hands and settling it firmly in hers, the wooden tip poised above the red-painted chest.

Shepard shifted the spear into her left hand and held her right out to her fallen opponent. With a faint grunt of acknowledgment, he took it and she heaved him to his feet, handing back his weapon with a tiny smile and nod.

She walked over to the Arishok and stood before him. "Well?" she asked. "Seen enough?"

The massive creature made a noise between a rumble and a hum. "For now."

_Oh, thank you _so_ very much… you jackass._

With a slight tightening of her jaw, Shepard turned on her heel and retrieved Garrus from his temporary resting place among the qunari practice weapons. With a fluid motion, she clipped the rifle into place on her backplate.

"The reports were correct, basra. You fight well." The Arishok's voice was just behind her. She hadn't heard him move, but there he was, less than an arm's length away.

Shepard caught herself before she could betray her surprise, and turned around slowly.

"Yes," she said simply. "It's my _job_."

A rumble. "That is inefficient."

The Spectre raised an eyebrow questioningly. "Oh? What is?"

"Females should not be warriors. It is inefficient," he repeated, brows wrinkling just over his nose.

Shepard shrugged. "I beat your _male_ soldier."

The Arishok exhaled sharply. "I was not doubting your skill, basra. You are simply inferior to a male warrior. There is no shame in this; it simply is."

Shepard narrowed her eyes dangerously and took a step forward, craning her neck. "Any time you'd like to prove that personally, let me know."

He held up a hand. "You _must_ know this, basra. Females are smaller than males. They lack the weight and strength of a male. Their aggression is not the same. Why waste their talents by training them for combat that they are simply less suited to?"

Shepard blinked, and shook her head. "It doesn't work that way," she argued.

The Arishok's eyebrows rose. "Does it not?" He shifted his weight forward just enough to underscore the difference in their size.

"Where I come from, size and strength are not as important to a soldier as speed, coordination, and brains." She jerked her head over her shoulder. "You've seen what our weapons can do. Size just makes you a bigger target. And strength on a trigger just causes pulled shots."

"I am to believe that this," he gestured at the sparring ring, "was not a result of much training and practice?"

Shepard shook her head again. "I have lots of _experience_ in hand-to-hand, but it's not my preferred method of fighting, no. The majority - the _vast_ majority - of battles where I come from are conducted at range. And, even more, my particular specialization as a soldier is at _extremely_ long range. I would argue that, for a sniper - which is what I do best - it is _more_ efficient to be female."

The golden eyes, though still intense, appeared thoughtful. "Explain," he demanded shortly.

"Being smaller than a man allows me to require less cover to obtain a protected position. My smaller mass also allows me to move with greater stealth from cover to cover. When not in cover, I present a smaller surface area for enemies to target."

"Less aggression means a clearer head, which allows me to pick my targets more strategically. It also gives me greater patience to wait for the shot rather than rushing it, increasing my precision. Females - humans, anyway - also multitask more effectively, allowing for greater parallel processing on the battlefield, and thus greater tactical flexibility."

"And lastly, there is nothing quite like the female capacity for narrowly directed violence. Ask any man who has ever been caught cheating on his wife or girlfriend."

Shepard shrugged. "Perhaps if we were still bashing each other with pointy bits of metal where I come from, your argument would carry weight. But, for us, it's simply no longer valid."

Those eyes were still thoughtful, though the brows had lowered. "Endurance, the resilience of the body to damage, the ability to ignore wounds… these things are all a function of strength. They are not so easily dismissed," the Arishok argued.

Shepard nodded in agreement. "Partially, yes, I'll give you that. For instance, more mass equals more blood. It will take a big man a longer time to bleed out than a small woman. But those things are also a reflection of a person's strength of will, not body. And a woman has the same potential strength of will than a man. Also," she pointed at the giant, "it's been proven that women deal better with pain than men do. Evolutionarily speaking, we have to. We're the ones that have to go through the pain of childbirth."

"Besides," she added, "it's not as if every male is as… exquisitely honed as your soldiers are. It really all comes down to the individual."

"Yes," he acknowledged. "The karasten were conceived to be as they are. And females are conceived to be what they are. To argue otherwise has little purpose."

Shepard gaped at him for a moment. "Wait… when you say _conceived_, do you mean they were specifically _bred_ to be soldiers?"

"Of course," the Arishok said. "All are created with purpose, to serve the qun. To do otherwise would be…"

"Inefficient," Shepard muttered. She squinted her eyes and glanced up at the giant. "Has anyone ever told you that you might be adhering a little _too_ tightly to the concepts of efficiency and purpose?"

"No."

"Well, I guess I'll be the first."

* * *

_A/N: I know it's never specifically stated that Thane is a melee weapons specialist in addition to his accepted hand-to-hand skills, but I like to think that he is._

_I also like to think that, if he hadn't been in the end stages of Kepral's, he would have mopped the floor with Kai Leng's face. Also, also that he was high on some kind of medication when he rushed a guy with a sword while armed with a pistol. Because seriously, who does that? Besides people Bioware wants to kill off, I mean?_

_Then again, I like Thane. Maybe not as much as Garrus - and I mean, really... c'mon, he's _Garrus_ - but he's one of my more favorite fucked up characters - beautifully, tragically flawed. Also, _**assassin**_.__ Rowr._**_  
_**

_Okay. Maybe I need to get out more...  
_

_Oh, and by "proven", I mean Myth Confirmed. :)  
_


	17. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen**

Varric narrowed his eyes as he stared at the woman opposite him. He'd known from the beginning it would come down to this.

She met his gaze unflinchingly, eyes as cold and unfathomable as the depths of the ocean.

"Shit!" Varric threw down his cards in exasperation.

Shepard smiled. "Always a pleasure to take your money, dwarf," she gloated, reaching forward to collect her earnings.

Varric snatched at her other wrist, lowering her hand to display the cards she held in her fingers.

"Maker's_ ballsack_!" he groaned. "I _knew_ I should have called." He gave her a look of mixed irritation and admiration. "I thought you said you'd never played Diamondback before."

Shepard shrugged, stacking the coins into piles with deft fingers. "I haven't. But I have played just about every variant of poker ever invented. The theory is the same."

She looked down at the dog sitting to her left. "You know, we have a joke about dogs playing poker where I come from, but I never thought I'd actually see it."

"The mabari are an extremely intelligent breed," Fenris assured her. "As long as he has someone to hold his cards for him, Griffon is quite a capable player." The elf frowned. "Although he still could use work on his tells."

"The butt wiggle is kind of a giveaway," Shepard agreed.

"That's only because Varric told him he wagged his tail when he had a good hand," Hawke said defensively. "He's been working on it ever since." She reached across the table to rub the big animal's cheeks and ears. "Isn't that right, boy? It's not his fault the muscle actions are partly involuntary."

"It's the only reason I have any money left," Anders retorted. He lifted up a beef shank. "And something for tomorrow's soup pot."

"You come in too low on a mediocre hand, and too high on a strong one. And you never play weak hands at all," Shepard told him. "I can just about guess exactly what cards you're holding by the strength of your bets." She shrugged. "You're predictable."

"Thank you very much," Anders responded in tones of mock offense.

"Look at the bright side, Blondie. At least she didn't say it was your butt wiggle."

"I don't believe she's seen my butt wiggle," Anders said with slightly inebriated dignity. Justice was in one of his rare sulks, and Anders was taking advantage of the quiet.

"No," said Shepard with a sly grin, "I don't think I have. After all, most of the time you're wearing that feathered number that makes you look like a sad, molting peacock. In case you haven't realized, it does rather obscure your gluteal regions."

"What? This?" The mage picked at one feathered pauldron. "This happens to have been a very nice coat at one time! Before the darkspawn threw up on it. And bled on it. Or maybe it was Oghren who threw up on it… Either way, it's not as if there's washerwomen in the Dark Roads. Stains happen."

"You're right," Shepard's grin grew even more sly. "I stand corrected. There's no way you look like a molting peacock in that outfit. Peacocks like things to show."

Sputtering, Anders fumbled for the catch at his throat. "Show?" he said indignantly. "I'll give you a _show_."

"Oh, this I _have_ to see," Isabela murmured in delight.

With exaggerated care, Anders stood up and removed his belt, dropping it on the chair, and slowly shrugged the coat off of his shoulders, folding it over the chair back.

Isabela leaned back in her chair and propped her booted feet on the table. "Could you try pouting a little more when you do that?" she asked eagerly. "Mmm… those lips were just _made_ to pout."

"No, I will not," Anders replied with a huff. "This isn't for you."

"Spoilsport. Hawke, get him to pout, will you?"

"It isn't for Hawke, either," the mage added, grasping the hem of the roughspun shirt he wore under his coat and pulling the garment off over his head, leaving him in only his tight-fitting breeches and boots.

"Should I shut my eyes, then?" Hawke teased.

Anders ignored her. Very deliberately, he turned his back, craning his neck to look over his shoulder at Shepard in a very provocative pose.

He wiggled his butt.

Shepard's left forearm lit up with an orange glow as she tapped her omni-tool. "Perfect," she said smugly.

"I could have gone the rest of my life without seeing that," Fenris muttered sourly.

"You know, Blondie, you're awfully well-muscled for a mage," Varric commented. "I thought mages sat around studying magic all day."

"When have you _ever_ seen me sit around studying magic, Varric?" Anders asked plaintively, shaking out his shirt and slipping it back over his head, much to Isabela's disappointment. "Most of the time you see me, I'm running around with Hawke, with all sorts of things trying to kill us."

Varric shrugged. "I just thought it was something that mages did. Like a compulsion, or something."

"Shooting lightning at fools is a compulsion. Losing all my money to a smart-mouthed dwarf at Diamondback is a compulsion. Sitting around studying magic is a penance."

"Surely you must have studied when you were in the Circle," Fenris pointed out. "Or has your entire life been a waste of time?"

Anders gave the elf a sour look. "I can't win with you, can I? If I study magic, I'm an evil mage, and if I don't study magic then I've wasted my life." He slid his arms back into his coat. "For your information, most of what I did during my time in the Circle was plan to escape the Circle. When I wasn't at the Circle, I was running away from Templars, which does tend to keep you fit. And after that, I was a Grey Warden, and between the Joining and chasing after darkspawn… Let's just say you never see any fat Wardens. Ever."

For a moment it seemed that some of the hardness went out of the elf's eyes. "Yes. I tend to… forget… you were part of the Wardens." The sharpness came back suddenly. "Although why they would chose _you_ I find hard to fathom."

Anders shrugged wearily. "They needed to rebuild their numbers after Ostagar."

"I see," Fenris sneered. "Desperation."

The mage sighed. "I don't want to do this right now," he complained. "I think I'll just go home." He bent and scooped his few meager coins into a hand and tucked them away in his belt. The beef shank was dropped into his market bag.

"Hold on," Shepard said, "and I'll go back with you." She glanced down at the piles of coins and made a face. "You know, there really is something to be said for credit chits."

Hawke dropped a hand to her belt and unfastened one of the pouches she carried. She opened and sorted through it quickly, removed a couple of small vials, and tossed it to Shepard. "That should make it a bit easier," she offered.

She waggled the hand that contained the vials when she saw Shepard's eyes were lingering on them. "Poison," she explained with a grin. "Didn't want to give you more than you bargained for."

Shepard nodded her thanks and pushed the coins off the table and into the little leather container, closing the fastenings on it when the last copper was inside.

"Okay," she told Anders, "ready to go."

"Are you sure you're all right staying with Blondie in Darktown?" Varric asked. "There's an empty room here at the Hanged Man."

Shepard made a face. "That isn't much of an improvement. I think I'll continue to take my chances in the sewer."

She paused, an odd expression on her face. "You know, I don't think that's something I ever thought I'd hear myself say." Then she smiled wryly. "Of course, given the alternative, I suppose it could be worse."

Hawke raised an eyebrow. "There are worse things than living in a Darktown sewer?"

"Being turned into a mindless synthetic husk comes to mind."

"Well, when you put it _that_ way... Darktown's not so bad."

"Except for the smell."

**-ooo-**

In terms of poverty, the Kirkwall alienage hovered somewhere between dirt and destitution. In her mind, Shepard had painted it a bit like the projects she grew up in - given the character of the rest of Lowtown, she figured any place you shoved a race of second-class citizens was bound to be ugly.

She was wrong.

The edge you got in the rest of Lowtown wasn't as… hard… in the alienage. It wasn't something she could have described in words, necessarily, but Shepard knew a bad neighborhood when she set foot in one, and the alienage just… wasn't.

In the middle of the courtyard of the main block of tenement-like buildings was an enormous tree. Shepard knew next to nothing about Earth botany, let alone that of Thedas, but in shape, if not size, the tree reminded Shepard of an ancient oak she'd seen in Griffith Park once.

It appeared that the tree had some special meaning here in the alienage, though Shepard wasn't sure if it was an elven thing or something adopted by the people living here in the neighborhood. The bole of the tree was decorated with intricate swirls of paint, and candles and other offerings were placed on dishes and benches around it. Much like the projects, there wasn't a bit of greenery in the rest of Lowtown, unless you counted the odd weed, and Shepard found herself oddly touched by the old tree's obvious veneration.

The dressmaker had a stall set up in the corner of the courtyard, and Shepard was talking to the dressmaker's assistant when she found herself accosted by an elven woman with tousled black hair and huge green eyes. Soft colored, swirling tattoos covered the woman's face, highlighting her delicate features.

"Oh," she said matter-of-factly, "you must be Shepard."

"I'm sorry," Shepard replied, "have we met?"

"Oh, no," said the elven woman with a shake of her head. "We haven't." She tilted her head, making her look like a little bird. "You're not how I pictured you at all. I thought you'd be blonde. Unless…" her eyes widened in consternation, "you're not…"

"Oh. How embarrassing," the elf said. "I just thought, you look odd and you're polite - most people aren't polite, you know - and so you must be a friend of Hawke's, and… I'm babbling, aren't I? I'll stop now."

Shepard smiled. "So you're saying that all of Hawke's friends are odd looking yet polite?"

"Well, Fenris can be a bit grumpy at times. Most of the time, actually. But he has such a lovely voice… if you don't listen to the actual words, it's quite nice."

The woman's voice was touched with a soft brogue. It reminded Shepard of a young Irish lieutenant she once knew in Vancouver - Liam Kelleher. With a pang, she wondered if he was still alive.

"And Justice isn't very polite. Most spirits aren't. I don't think they have to be, in the Beyond," the elf continued. She frowned. "Wait… _do_ you know Hawke?"

Now the girl looked a bit like a confused kitten.

_Varric wasn't kidding when he said they gossiped among themselves, was he?_

"I _am_ Shepard, and I _do_ know Hawke," Shepard told her gently. "But, as you can see," she lifted a lock of hair, "I'm definitely not blonde."

"Well, that's good then. Why are you in the alienage? Did Hawke send you for something?"

"No, I'm here for the dressmaker." Shepard put her head on one side. "What is your name, by the way?"

The brows above the green eyes leapt in surprise. "Elgar'non! Did I not say who I was?"

Shepard smiled. "Nope."

The elf held out her hand. "I'm Merrill. I'm a friend of Hawke's. But… you… already knew that."

Shepard shook her hand. "Why would you think that Hawke sent me, Merrill?"

Merrill shrugged. "Not many people come to the alienage unless they have to." She frowned slightly. "Or they live here, of course."

Shepard glanced around the shady courtyard. "I kind of like it here," she admitted.

"Do you?" Merrill looked astounded.

Shepard nodded. "I like the tree."

"Ah. The vhenadahl," Merrill said. "It serves as a reminder to my people of their heritage."

"You live here?" Shepard asked.

Merrill nodded. "Just there," she pointed to a nearby door.

"Hello, Merrill." The dressmaker's assistant, clearly tired of waiting for the other elf to release Shepard's attention, spoke up.

"Anethara, Nyssa," Merrill replied.

Having accomplished the task of distracting Merrill from talking the shem's ear off, Nyssa smiled at the human. "I will need to take your measurements, of course."

"You can do the work, then?" Shepard couldn't hide the relief in her voice.

"Yes, messere," Nyssa replied. "You will want to speak to my mistress about your specifications, but we certainly sew smallclothes."

"Wait…" Shepard's eyes suddenly narrowed, "mistress? You're not a slave, are you?"

Nyssa's eyes widened in shock. "No! Of course not."

Shepard relaxed. "Thank god. I really need that underwear, and I like it here. Having to kill a damn slaver would really ruin my day."

The elven assistant looked anything but relieved by this news, but Merrill laughed. "You sound like Hawke!"

"Thanks," Shepard replied, unsure if being compared to the flippant, wise-cracking rogue was a good thing, "I think."

Merrill hastened to clarify. "It's a compliment," she said. "Hawke is a good person. She just likes to stab things."

Nyssa swallowed visibly, but motioned Shepard to the side so that she could take the necessary measurements with a length of knotted string.

"I should go," Merrill said suddenly. "I'm supposed to meet Isabela in the market. She said she wants to look at hats." The elf's eyebrows drew together in a perplexed expression. "It's odd. I've never seen her _wear_ a hat…"

Shepard watched her wander off.

"Is she always like that?" she wondered aloud.

"Merrill? Yes," Nyssa said.

"And she thought _I_ should be blonde…"

**-ooo-**

"Shepard! What are you doing here?"

"Sitting under a tree." Shepard squinted up at Hawke. "What about you?"

"Oh, you know," Hawke answered breezily, "responding to a cry for help. Why the tree?"

Shepard shrugged. "It's a nice tree. I like it. And you never know…"

"Never know what?" grated Fenris, as he and Varric stepped out from behind Hawke.

"Didn't you know? Enlightenment happens under trees. Just ask Newton."

Fenris scowled. "And who is Newton?"

Shepard smiled. She found she liked needling the elf. "Some guy who sat under an apple tree. Or Buddha."

"Do I want to ask?"

"Some guy who sat under a bodhi tree."

"So enlightenment comes with bird shit?" Varric asked curiously.

"Apparently so," Shepard nodded.

A panicky looking elven woman with tattoos on her forehead and chin rushed up to Hawke, wringing her hands.

"I was hoping you'd come! You've done so much for my Feynriel, but… I visited him among the people but he turned me away. I know the demons still plague him, and now they've taken him!"

The woman's voice broke in a sob. "Two days ago, Feynriel went into a nightmare and hasn't returned."

Hawke blinked. "He can't be woken up?"

"The keeper says he is near death. His lips still fog a mirror, but that is all."

Hawke tilited her head to one side in confusion. "So you're what? Hoping that I could yell really loudly in his ear? Maybe give him a good shake?"

"I'm hoping you can reach him," the woman pleaded. "You made a strong impression when you rescued him from the slavers. My Dalish friends tell me he speaks of you all the time," the elven woman told her. "The keeper says Feynriel's powers are a throwback to ancient magics that once let elves shape the Fade. The only way to reach him is through his dreams."

"Well… all right," Hawke conceded with a grin. "I _could_ use a nap."

"Keeper Marethari thinks an ancient Dalish ritual can help free Feynriel, but someone he trusts must enter the Fade to guide him out. Are you willing to submit to her magic to save my son?"

Hawke's eyes widened. "Oooh," she said. "It's not often you get to submit and still come out the hero."

"Does that mean you'll do it? Oh, thank you!" A single fat tear rolled down the woman's cheek.

"The fade is a place for mages, not for people like you and I," Fenris grumbled.

"I've already called for the keeper," the woman went on nervously. "We need to begin the ritual as quickly as possible. Would you like to stay here or return when she arrives?"

Hawke glanced at her companions and then over to Shepard. "Are you up for some extreme napping, or are you busy with your enlightenment?"

Shepard grinned. "What the hell?" she said, getting to her feet. "I have absolutely no idea what you all are talking about, but if it'll ease the poor woman's mind, why not?"

Hawke turned back to the elf. "This is too urgent to delay," she agreed.

The elven woman sagged in relief. "You have been far kinder than I had any right to expect."

The Dalish keeper was a slender, white haired woman with a surprisingly unlined face under her complex tattoos, but eyes that were old and wise. When she entered the alienage, many of the city elves bowed to her reverentially. She paused at the vhenadhal before coming to where Hawke and the others waited with the worried elven mother.

Once inside the woman's small apartment, the keeper spoke up.

"I came quickly, Arianni. I did not wish to tell you by letter how grave your son's situation is. His abilities make him what the Tevinters used to call somniari - a dreamer. Dreamers have the power to control the Beyond - what humans call the Fade. Feynriel is the first in two ages to survive."

"Why are they so rare?" Hawke questioned.

"Dreamers have great power in the Fade. They attract demons. Luckily, most prove too fragile of mind to survive a demon's possession. A dreamer abomination would be near unstoppable," the keeper responded solemnly.

Hawke turned her hands up eloquently. "What exactly are we going to do here?"

The keeper gave her a brief smile. "The elves of the Dales were experts at the somniari arts. They could even help those with no power enter the Fade," she explained. "I have done my best to recreate the ritual. We will use Feynriel's childhood home as a focus to draw him back through the Veil."

Hawke gave her a perplexed frown. As mission briefings went, this was more than a little vague. "Just send me into the Fade," she sighed.

"I told you her courage was legendary!" Arianni declared.

The keeper waved this off. "Now, Arianni," she said gently, "please excuse us. We must prepare."

The elven woman looked abashed. "Oh, of course," she agreed, backing away politely.

The keeper took Hawke's arm and gently led her to one side. "There is more I must tell you that is not for her ears," she said quietly.

Hawke glanced down at the keeper's hand on her arm, and gave the older woman a cheeky grin. "You're really not my type…" she quipped.

The keeper shot her a scolding glare. "This is a serious matter," she chided. "Feynriel cannot become an abomination. The destruction he would cause is unimaginable." The keeper's voice was adamant. "If you cannot save him from the demons, you must kill him yourself. A death in the Fade will make him what your Circle calls Tranquil. He will be no threat after."

Hawke looked shocked. "That's Feynriel's greatest fear," she said. "I won't be the one to make it come true."

The keeper subjected Hawke to a long, searching look. Then she sighed. "I have no choice but to leave it in your hands," she said. "Now, gather a team, and we will begin. Choose carefully, for all will face temptation."

The rogue glanced at her squad. "Everyone still willing?"

Fenris scowled. "I have no desire to explore the Fade, but if you need me, I will go."

"I admit, I'm a little fascinated," said Varric.

"I have no idea what is going on," Shepard muttered. "Where, exactly, are we going?"

"Beyond the Veil, into the world of spirits and demons," the elven keeper told Shepard. "A place where only mages may walk freely. All others - elves and humans alike - may only pass there in their dreams."

Shepard didn't look convinced. "Is this going to be like one of those urban shaman scams where we all sit around and take psychedelic drugs until we're out of our minds?"

The keeper gave her an odd look. "I doubt it very much," she said.

Shepard shrugged. "I've done crazier things."

The keeper nodded. "Let us begin."

**-ooo-**

Shepard wasn't sure what she expected, but the watercolor landscape in front of her certainly wasn't it.

They were in a large building. Statues lined a pillared hallway like giant weeping messiahs.

"So this is the Fade?" said Varric curiously. "I thought it would be… bigger."

"We should not linger," said Fenris ominously. "Nothing here is real."

"Feynriel must be further in," Hawke frowned. "I wonder why he's dreaming of the Gallows?"

Shepard snorted. "They did say it was a nightmare…"

Hawke led them quickly along the hallway to a door that opened on to a stairway that led into a courtyard with a wide portcullis gate at the far end. A… thing drifted toward them, seemingly made of shadow and oily darkness, yet that reflected light as if from a chitinous carapace.

"Well," said the thing in lazy, velvet tones. "It's rare to see two forgotten magics in one day. It's usually a slow place, the Fade. Not many surprises. I wasn't sure I'd like this one, but it has potential."

"Do not trust it," snapped Fenris. "It is a thing that will lure you in if it can."

The thing turned a single, glowing violet eye upon him. "Call me… Torpor," it said. "I have a proposition that might interest you." The shape of its head reminded Shepard of nothing so much as a geth. Curiously, she tapped her omni-tool, but the device did not respond.

She frowned. "Is this supposed to be a demon?" she asked Hawke.

"That is the term humans give us," the thing agreed in an amiable voice. "We existed first, though, so that seems slightly _unfair_."

Shepard would have liked to question it further, but Hawke stepped forward, making a dismissive slashing motion with one hand. "I will not give in to temptation, fiend," she said firmly.

The thing sighed. "Have it your way…"

Several other creatures sprung from the wavering flagstones of the courtyard floor, moving in for the attack. Shepard tried her omni-tool again, but it was as if the computer was not even there. She dropped a hand to her hip, suddenly grateful for Hawke's generous impulses, drawing the long knife from its sheath.

The raking talons of the things seemed less to rend flesh than to tear chill ribbons from Shepard's mind. The best armor could not protect you from a thing that struck at your very soul. However, the things themselves were not immune to the thrust of a blade or the piercing tip of a crossbow quarrel, and eventually all had dissipated back into the watercolor world of the Fade.

"Okay," said Shepard, as they checked themselves for injury, "for the record: I don't like demons."

"And I was thinking of inviting him back to the Hanged Man for drinks later," Varric grinned.

"If you're that heartbroken, Varric," said Hawke, "I'm sure we can find you another one."

**-ooo-**

Hawke was right. The world seemed to stutter as they stepped through a door at the end of another long hallway, the rest of the squad fading into sudden bright light, and then suddenly, Shepard was facing another _thing_, this one huge and monstrously looming in the small atrium. Unlike the previous demon, this thing reminded Shepard of a Reaper brute, only bigger. _Much_ bigger.

Shepard blinked, and the rest of the squad was around her. The monstrous thing stretched, and swung a many-eyed face with a gaping maw of needle-like teeth on Hawke.

"With my power joined to his, Feynriel would have changed the world!" it snarled.

Hawke shook her head mildly. "Have you ever _seen_ an abomination?" she asked flippantly. "They are _ug_-ly."

The thing's expression did not change, but there was a sneer in its voice as it replied. "You put such stock in appearances? Perhaps that is why your friends' loyalty only goes skin deep." Its massive head turned back and forth, as if seeking something.

"You think this hero chooses to be at your command, when she herself has led whole armies?"

Shepard looked around. "Are you talking to me?" she asked.

"Yes. _You_ were the savior of millions, and now you are stuck here, in this backwards world, the grovelling follower of a petty criminal. You could lead again. With my aid, your armies could sweep across all of Thedas, conquering all who stand before you!"

Shepard blinked. "I didn't _ask_ to be the savior of millions, and I'm not a conquerer. I'm just a soldier."

"Good answer," murmured Varric appreciatively.

The thing seemed unperturbed. "And what of this one? You think this slave would choose you over his freedom?"

Fenris lashed out with one hand. "Cast your eyes elsewhere, demon," he growled. "I won my freedom from the magisters long ago."

"But you fear them still," the thing's voice had a cloying quality to it. "They left their marks on your body and on your mind. With my aid, you could be free forever. You could have power enough to challenge any who would chain you."

Hawke rolled her eyes. "How transparent can you get?" she mocked.

Fenris faltered. "But… to face them as an equal," he murmured. "I… what would you want from me?"

"Fenris?"

The demon chuckled softly. "A moment of your time, nothing more."

The elf's eyes suddenly glazed over, and with a wild cry he charged Hawke, catching her with the flat of his blade and sending her flying.

"Broody! What have you done?" Varric demanded, as the elf rounded on him. "I don't want to have to do this," the dwarf warned, backing away with his crossbow drawn.

With another roar, Fenris charged him, the giant blade swinging. Varric fired on him, catching him high in the chest with a bolt. Shepard leapt forward, bringing her elbow across in a powerful arc, striking the back of the elf's skull. A moment later, she was picked up and thrown through the air to hit the far wall, which wavered in her vision like a mirage but felt as solid as concrete.

Hawke was back up and battling the demon. Despite the thing's size and the wicked spikes on its carapace, it was not a good fighter. Shepard had more challenging fights with krogan.

When it was down, she looked around for the elf's body, but he had disappeared.

"What happened to Fenris?" she asked Varric.

The dwarf shrugged. "He just… disappeared."

"I hope he's all right," Hawke worried.

"Hawke," said Varric, "you remember what I said about Broody?"

"He's never going to be all right," Hawke sighed. "C'mon. We still need to find Feynriel."

**-ooo-**

This time, when the world stuttered around Shepard, there was a brilliant flash of light and she could hear a woman's voice, low, seductive, and angry.

"… the only thing you ever wanted."

The light resolved into the floating figure of a humanoid female, horned and possessing a long, barbed tail, but no shirt. The thing's nipples were impressively pierced, and it's long-fingered hands drifted over its flesh pleasurably.

"You!" it said to Hawke accusingly. "You turned him against me!"

Hawke held out both hands in a shrug. "Complete accident," she insisted. "I was trying to help. Honest."

The thing's amethyst eyes narrowed. "Take away my pets, and I'll take away yours. How loyal are these friends you drag into the Fade?"

"This, again?" muttered Varric.

"What would you give to have your love at your side again?" the creature purred, drifting up to Shepard. "Alive, and free of the disease that took him from you?" It raised one hand to Shepard's cheek, stroking it lovingly.

Shepard jerked her head away, but her voice cracked when she responded. "Thane is dead. Nothing in this world will bring him back."

"Are you so sure of that?" Those deep purple eyes were beguiling, and seemed to understand every last inch of Shepard's heart. "Would you deny yourself the chance to find out?"

"I…" Shepard licked her lips. "Thane has found peace, and one day, I will join him," she whispered, closing her eyes against the wrenching in her heart.

"But you do not truly believe that, do you? You cannot know if he awaits you beyond the sea. You died once, and there was no sea. Why leave things to chance?" There was a gleam of light around the thing's silhouette, and suddenly Thane was there before her, his dark eyes gazing unblinkingly into hers, a small smile on his perfect lips.

"You wished for me to be alive with you once, siha," he purred, taking one of her hands in his. "Do you not wish so again?"

Shepard trembled, but the demon had erred in judgement. "No!" she cried, shoving the illusionary drell away from her. "You are _not_ Thane."

The thing returned to its normal form. "Pity," it said mockingly. "But perhaps I have something else you… desire."

"Careful, Shepard," Varric warned. "Don't listen."

"Your ship," it said simply. "Your crew. Your friends." A smile lifted the corners of its lips. "The way _home_…"

"Yes…" Shepard could not stop the word from ghosting out.

"Shepard, no," said Hawke, desperately. "Don't do this."

_Saren tried to turn you. The Illusive Man tried to turn you. The Catalyst tried to turn you. Why give in now?_

Still, the pull was so _strong_.

_It tried to give you Thane back, and it lied. This is no different, Shepard!_

She squeezed her eyes tightly shut. "I want to go home," she whispered. Her eyes opened, and she stared the thing down. "But you can't do that, can you? It's just illusions. Nothing is real."

"You have _no idea_ what I can do," the creature hissed.

"Then prove it," Shepard's voice was strong. "Show me. Prove to me that you can send me back by showing me just one thing I can believe."

Shepard focused on the last thing she'd seen of Earth; a devastated London cityscape, lit by Harbinger's hellish light.

Around her, the walls of the Gallows dropped away. For a moment, Shepard was staring at the image she held in her head, and then it changed. Where once the pitiful remainder of the Hammer forces made their final charge - where Shepard had seen humans, turians, krogan and asari all blown apart, their broken bodies littering the soil of her homeworld - a swath of green grass now grew, dotted by trees and graced with a gently meandering path. At the end of the path, near where the brilliant beam of light had once linked Earth and the Citadel, a dark marble memorial stood.

Shepard smiled grimly. "You would have done better leaving it a wasteland. I might have bought that. But this… this is just wishful thinking. The reality, even if I _did_ stop the Reapers, would be casualties and mass graves, a devastated Earth. Refugees and strained supply lines, and in all likelihood the military brass of several fleets all working at cross purposes. You show me only what I _want_, not what's real."

The demon's face contorted in anger, and she slashed at Shepard with a hand that was now more talons than fingers.

Shepard drew her dagger and buried it to the hilt in the thing's chest. It's head dropped back, and it screamed.

"That's for every soldier who fought and died on that killing ground," she growled.

She twisted the blade with a sharp jerk. "And that's for trying to use Thane to get to me, you bitch."

**-ooo-**

They finally found Feynriel back in the courtyard. His eyes were wild and he looked, to Shepard, like a young man at the very end of his tether. She'd seen plenty like him - raw recruits teetering on the brink. If they fell one way, they became soldiers; the other, and they became a statistic… or a corpse.

"I can't spend another moment in this place," he moaned. "The screaming. Everywhere, all I can hear are the nightmares of people dying, fleeing, gnawing their own arms off to escape."

He paced, eyes rolling like a shying horse. "This is a world of monsters. And they all want me."

He stopped, and looked beseechingly at Hawke, hands held out imploringly. "Please, help me escape. Help me die."

Hawke's eyes were full of pity. "If I kill you here," she told him quietly, "I only destroy your mind. You will become a Tranquil."

The young man blinked. "I was afraid of that for so long," he said. "I can't even remember why. To live… to sleep without dreaming. To never hear a demon's whisper… it is a blessing as great as standing at the Maker's side."

Varric turned anguished eyes to Hawke. "Is this truly necessary?" he asked.

"Do it," said the boy, abruptly. "Put the knife in my heart."

Hawke subjected him to a searching stare. "You can master this talent, Feynriel," she urged. "You don't have to let it destroy you." The sincerity and belief in her voice were amazing. Shepard blinked, and looked at Hawke with a kind of newfound appreciation. If she did not believe what she was saying, there was not a shred of it evident in her eyes or her voice.

The young man hesitated, uncertain. "The Dalish do not have what I need," he said simply. "Perhaps Tevinter…" His voice strengthened, and Shepard could see the light of hope in his eyes. "If these powers can be trained, it will be there!" he declared.

Feynriel took a deep breath, and looked Hawke in the eye. "I can do this," he stated.

He turned then, squaring his shoulders, and moved his hand as if parting a curtain. The watercolor matter of the Fade parted for him, he took a purposeful step forward, and disappeared.

**-ooo-**

Shepard awoke on a pallet in Arianni's kitchen floor. As she sat up, she could hear Hawke's voice nearby.

"Feynriel has mastered his powers."

"Then he lives!" Arianni's voice, weak with relief. "You saved him! I cannot thank you enough."

Shepard rolled to her feet, trying to get the kink out of one shoulder. The pallet was less comfortable than a military bunk, and that was saying a great deal.

"Keeper Marethari," Arianni continued, "may I return with you to the Sunderlands? I would ask my son's forgiveness."

"Of course," said the keeper. "It was you who chose to stay away."

"He must go elsewhere to train," Hawke warned. "There is no one in Kirkwall to help him. He asked me to say goodbye."

Shepard didn't remember that part, but she supposed there was no harm in stretching the truth a little.

The elven mother gasped. "My son? I must find him before he goes!" Hastily, she began to run about the apartment, collecting belongings rapidly.

"It is wise for him to seek guidance," the keeper murmured to Arianni as the elf flew around the room. "Kirkwall cannot provide what he needs."

She turned to Hawke. "I truly did not think what you did was possible. You are a rare human indeed."

At her side, Shepard heard Fenris speak. "And I must apologize for my weakness," he said humbly, visibly shaken by the events in the Fade. "I would have thought myself above such influence."

"Your friend awakened here some time ago. We all have weaknesses the demons find," she said gently.

"You accomplished a miracle with Feynriel." The keeper delved into a satchel and withdrew a faded tome. "This book belonged to the last Dreamer of our tribe. It has a rare magic beyond price. Please accept it with my gratitude," she said thankfully, bowing her head as she presented Hawke with the book.

"Thank you, Marethari," Hawke replied, dipping her head in acknowledgment of the gift.

"How did you manage?" Fenris spoke quietly, into Shepard's ear. "What the demon offered… how is it you turned away?"

Shepard glanced at Hawke, who was still speaking with the elven keeper, and drew Fenris close to the door. "It misjudged me. It thought that _commanding_ was synonymous with _conquering_." She shrugged. "It was the other demon who nearly had me."

"Other demon?" Fenris asked.

"It was as if…" Shepard shuddered at the thought, "as if it could look straight into my heart and see everything. Everything I've lost. Everything I've loved…" she stopped suddenly. "I'd… I'd prefer not to talk about it."

The elf's intensely green eyes stared into hers for a moment, and softened. "I… understand. You are… you are a stronger person than I, Shepard." His gauntleted hand gripped her arm briefly, and he slipped through the door.

* * *

_A/N: Warning - angst ahead._


	18. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen**

"Hawke." Varric's voice was troubled. "Do you have a minute?"

Uncharacteristically, the dwarf had followed Hawke back to her estate after they'd left the alienage. Fenris had disappeared almost directly following his apology to Hawke - before the rest of them had even left Arianni's rooms. Shepard had disappeared shortly thereafter, after barely speaking a word to either of them.

Hawke turned away from reading the messages that had arrived in her absence. "For you, my dear dwarf, I have _hours_."

Varric raised a hand to scratch at the back of his head. For once, he wasn't sure where to start.

"Did anything about that last little adventure of ours strike you as odd?"

Hawke snorted. "What about it _didn't_ strike me as odd?"

Varric looked relieved. "Good. I was afraid that it was normal for you _tall people_." He shrugged. "I'm a dwarf. What do I know of the Fade?"

"What bit was your favorite? The part where I turned into the First Enchanter? That was pretty creepy. Or was it the part where my friends started betraying me?"

Varric raised an eyebrow. "You turned into the First Enchanter? How did I miss that?"

"Oh, that's right," Hawke admitted. "You weren't there. It was right after we stepped through the door into the atrium. You, Fenris and Shepard all disappeared in a flash of light, and I turned into the First Enchanter."

"Weird." Varric shook his head. "No, I was referring to the parts I was present for."

"Ah," Hawke leaned back against the desk. "Fenris betraying us for power over the magisters, and Shepard almost betraying us for… I don't know what."

"You saw it, right? With Shepard?" the dwarf pressed.

Hawke looked guarded. "I saw a lot of things. I can't say it all made sense."

Varric let out a huff of air. "You tell me what you saw, and I'll tell you what I saw. Maybe between the two of us, we can make sense of it."

Hawke frowned. "I saw a place that reminded me of Ferelden during the Blight. Fires burning, ruined buildings, bodies everywhere… But the bodies weren't all human - _or_ elven _or_ dwarven. They weren't animals, either. They were, I don't know… in between? Maybe they were darkspawn. But they wore armor like Shepard's, and carried weapons like Shepard's."

She shuddered slightly. "And I saw light. A red light, brighter than the sun, that burned everything in its path."

"It wasn't only the bodies that were odd," Varric added. "Some of the buildings - what was left of them - weren't like buildings I've seen before. And there were things - like giant carts, but made of metal. So much metal _everywhere_. And twisted and burnt, too, as if it was no more than paper."

"Do you really think that was where Shepard's from?" Hawke asked. "Or was it something the demon made up?"

"I don't know, Hawke. There's a lot about Shepard we just don't know."

"I know one thing," Hawke stated.

"What's that?"

"It's obvious why she didn't seem that impressed by the qunari. Ox-headed giants probably wouldn't get a second glance where she comes from."

Varric was silent for a moment. "Do you think _that_ was really her… you know?" he said, finally.

"Varric! Are you blushing?" Hawke demanded. "You read Isabela's friend fiction all the time! Including the one she calls _Anders and the Stone Golem Explore the Deep Roads_. I thought you were unshockable."

"I just have a very good Diamondback face."

Hawke shrugged. "Whoever it… _he_… was, Shepard obviously cared for him a great deal."

"But it looked like… all right, _he_ looked like… I don't know… what you'd get if you fucked a dragon."

"Well," Hawke told him, "not everyone can be a sexy dwarf like you, Varric. And maybe some people like fucking dragons."

"It just seems… a little far afield, I suppose." Varric shook his head. "You know, Hawke, I really don't think I'd want to visit Shepard's homeland. I don't think my delicate dwarven sensibilities could take it."

He paused. "Hawke?"

Hawke seemed lost in thought, her lower lip thrust out and one finger tapping her jaw absently.

"Varric," she said slowly. "Do you suppose that maybe Shepard really _is_ from Thedas?"

"There's no way what I saw was Thedas, Hawke."

"I don't mean Thedas now. I mean Thedas… a long time from now."

The dwarf squinted up at his friend with concern. "Hawke, have you been drinking? Because if not, I'd say you're owed a few tankards."

"Ha. Funny," Hawke rolled her eyes. "I'm being serious, Varric. Just… think about it for a moment."

Varric put on a thoughtful look for a moment, and then wiped it away. "Yeah. No. Still sounds like something the weird guy in the Hanged Man would say."

"I think it would explain a lot, actually. The way that some things are obviously familiar to her, while other things she doesn't understand at all - and the same for us. And perhaps what we saw actually was the Blight - or what a Blight is like in her time."

Varric folded his arms on his chest and snorted. "What about her… what was it… Thane?"

Hawke shrugged. "Magic, maybe. I don't know. Maybe he was once human and was cursed, like the werewolves. Or maybe he came from wherever the qunari - the kossith qunari, I mean - came from."

"And I thought _I_ was the storyteller," Varric muttered sarcastically.

"You're just upset that you didn't think of it first," Hawke declared.

**-ooo-**

"How does the enlightenment progress?"

Shepard rolled her head toward the sound of the voice and was surprised to see a shock of pale hair against the darkness. "Still working on it," she replied, lifting a bottle to her lips.

Fenris hunkered down at her side. "May I?" he asked.

"Enlightenment is available to all," she said dryly, gesturing at the ground beside her. "One tree, no waiting."

The elf settled himself cross-legged. Shepard handed him the bottle.

Fenris brought it to his lips and took a long drink, then looked at the bottle in surprise. "This is… surprisingly palatable, for Lowtown."

Shepard shrugged, and retrieved the bottle. "Got it uptown." She fished around at her side and brought up an empty bottle and squinted at it. "This one was a pleasant little Tempranillo," she commented, setting the bottle down again. "This one," she groped in the darkness and pulled up a candle stub in a glass bottle… "I don't think I drank." She tried again, successfully this time. "This was a brash Cabernet." For a moment, Shepard held both bottles in a state of confusion. She frowned, and set them both down.

She let her head fall back against the tree again, and stared up into the branches.

"I never mourned them, you know."

Gently, Fenris took the unspent bottle from her grasp. "Who?" he asked, bringing the bottle to his lips again.

"All of them," she said simply. "My unit on Akuze. Jenkins, Ash. Pressly and the rest of the crew on the SR-1 who didn't survive." Her face twisted. "The soldiers I ordered to their deaths when I gave the go-ahead to save the Council. Everyone who died when I destroyed the Alpha Relay." She captured the bottle from Fenris and drank deeply. "Legion. Mordin," her voice was low, so low Fenris had to strain to hear her. "Thane."

"All gone, and I can't cry."

"Is it enough, perhaps, to remember them?" Fenris asked softly. "My first memories are of pain - of agony - as these markings were placed under my skin. If I had those to mourn before that, I cannot remember." All the harshness seemed drained out of the elf, and in one of those surprisingly lucid moments that can occur only when the rest of one's thoughts are simmering gently in alcohol, Shepard recognized a kindred spirit - in loneliness, if nothing else.

She lifted her head from the tree and gave him a long look. "I've never been able to decide if memory is a blessing or a curse," she said with a sigh. "Thane…" her voice wavered, "…his race possesses perfect memory. They can recall almost every moment of their lives with such detail that it's as if they are reliving it." She sipped from the bottle again and passed it back to Fenris. "There were times I envied him, knowing that he only had to close his eyes and we were together again. For him there would never be the ache of separation. But I also pitied him, for having to remember everything he lost with equal clarity. The loss - the hurt - would never fade with time."

Fenris paused with the bottle halfway to his mouth. "This… Thane. He was your… lover?"

"Yes."

They fell silent. Shepard raised a hand to the rough bark of the tree and brushed the backs of her fingers over it.

"My father took me to Griffith Park once," she said, seemingly apropos of nothing. "I think I was about six at the time."

Her fingers continued stroking the tree. "It was right before he got sick. We were poor white trash living in the projects and we couldn't afford the treatments that might have saved his life."

Shepard's eyes stared into the branches. There was a sheen to them in the darkness. "It still took him over a year to die," she said matter-of-factly. "It was the last time I ever cried."

Fenris remained silent. There was nothing to say. He handed the bottle back, and she drank, draining the last of the wine to the lees, and wiped the back of her gauntlet across her mouth.

"For all the things I'm supposed to be good at, elf," she said bitterly, "why can't one of them be dying?"

Fenris reached over and removed the empty bottle from her unresisting fingers. "Come," he said. "There are still a few good vintages in the cellar of Danarius' mansion." He rose to his feet fluidly and reached down to haul Shepard to hers.

She swayed slightly. Her fingers reached out to brush the bark one last time.

"Goodbye, tree," she said softly.

When she turned to him, Fenris could see wetness glistening on her lashes.

They were quiet as they climbed out of the alienage, out of Lowtown. When Fenris cast his eyes in Shepard's direction, he could see the tension in her face, the glimmer of the tears that would not spill from her eyes.

As they crossed the Hightown markets, he hesitantly broke the silence. "I wish I had words to offer."

"Words aren't necessary," Shepard replied. "And I would rather not hear sympathy or platitudes."

"That is fair. Perhaps, instead, you wish to speak? I would hear of your world, of those you wish to mourn, or of pleasanter times, should you wish to share."

He opened the door to the dilapidated mansion.

"How about a tale for a tale?" Shepard offered, as the elf led her up the stairs to an upper suite. It was clearly the only room in the huge building he actually lived in.

"I am afraid there is little for me to tell. I have lived the life of a slave." He knelt and rummaged through a crate in the corner.

"Tell me how you escaped from slavery."

Fenris paused for a moment and glanced at Shepard. She stood before the fire, staring into the flames as if she could will them to burn her pain away. "It is… not a story I have ever shared," he said slowly.

She looked away from the fire, into his eyes. "Will you tell me?"

He looked away. "Yes," he said, sorting through bottles until he found the one he was looking for. "Ah. The last of the Aggregio."

The elf stood and crossed to the fire. "Would you prefer a glass?"

The ghost of a smile flitted over Shepard's face. "I'm just a soldier, Fenris. I don't stand on ceremony."

"I doubt that's entirely true," he murmured.

"Are you going to argue with me, or open the damned wine?" Shepard tried to muster some spirit, but the words sounded flat to her ears.

"Both, perhaps," Fenris admitted, removing the cork with a deft touch and motioning for her to sit. "Before I tell you of my escape from Danarius, tell me one thing."

She dropped into a high-backed chair. "What?"

Fenris sat in the opposite chair and leaned forward, his eyes intent on Shepard's face.

"Why is it you wish to die?"

Shepard's eyes slid away from his and her body stiffened. It was the first time the elf had seen her back down from anything. He found it unsettling.

She stared into the fire again for several long minutes. Fenris was sure she would not answer, but finally, she spoke.

"Eight years ago, I was part of a marine detachment sent in to investigate a colony that had gone silent. I had just made Lieutenant."

"We hit dirt and set up base camp, started sending out patrols on recce, but the patrols found no sign of the colonists. The colony itself was tiny - these were hard-assed first-in pioneers, not the kind to bug out at the first sign of trouble, but it was like they'd disappeared into thin air."

"The recce units were pulled in at dusk. The perimeter patrols were quiet, and most of us sat around that night bitching about our MREs and talking shit about ghost stories and lost colonies until rack time."

"We'd been down for a few hours - it was maybe 0200 local - when all hell broke loose. There was the screech of metal and the screams of soldiers, with people falling out of their racks and grabbing whatever gear they could lay hands on. We rushed out into the night, expecting a firefight that never materialized. Instead, we were fighting these massive…" she gestured vaguely, "worm-like creatures that crushed vehicles like tin cans and spit acid that could eat through anything."

"None of us had ever seen thresher maws before. We had no idea how to fight them. When they'd start taking damage from our weapons fire, they'd suddenly burrow into the earth and disappear, only to pop up a few minutes later in another place."

"It was carnage. The night was filled with the sound of soldiers dying - quickly, in the case of those who were snatched by the jaws of the beasts, slowly in the case of those burned by the maws' acid."

"Someone, somewhere, managed to get a distress call off to our support ship, but by the time a reinforcement unit was groundside, it was all over. Fifty marines dead or missing - the whole unit. Except me."

"I'd been badly injured, but I was alive. When I woke up, I was in the medical bay of the San Francisco, a heavy cruiser, and I'd been awarded a fucking commendation and an invitation to N-school for being the only marine too stupid to die when she was supposed to."

Mutely, she reached out to Fenris, and he handed her the bottle of Aggregio. She drank for a very long time.

"Three years ago, I was given the honor," her lips twisted sourly, "of becoming the first human agent in the Special Tactics and Reconnaissance branch. I had no particular desire to become a Spectre, but I needed the backing to pursue a traitorous rat-bastard and stop him from unleashing death and destruction on the entire fucking galaxy."

"The galaxy?" Fenris asked. "I am… unfamiliar with the term, though I believe you have used it before."

Shepard raised her eyes to a section of missing roof. "See that out there?"

The elf's brow furrowed. "The sky?"

"Yes. All that. All those stars, as far as the eye can see. Farther."

"I…" Fenris looked puzzled.

"It doesn't matter," Shepard shook her head and made a dismissive gesture with her hand. "At the end of _that_ fiasco, there were _thousands_ dead - soldiers and civilians alike. And once again, despite being practically on top of an exploding Reaper, I was alive. Broke my arm, dislocated my shoulder, and destroyed my collarbone, but I walked away."

Shepard laughed without mirth. "Thought it all caught up to me about a month later. My ship, the Normandy, was attacked by an unknown vessel. Damn thing just sliced right through us, like the Normandy was made of wet tissue paper. I dropped our emergency beacons and gave the order to abandon ship, but my god-damn pilot didn't want to leave the helm. Made my way to the bridge and threw his brittle ass into an escape pod, but the attacking ship came around for another pass. The Normandy disintegrated, and I was thrown out of the wreckage."

"There really wouldn't have been much chance for me to survive in any event, but my hardsuit ruptured, and I lost my air supply. The last thing I remember is coldness, and the sound of my own gasping as I suffocated."

"But…" Fenris whispered.

Shepard took another swig of wine. "I woke up two years later."

"This time, I'd been put back together specifically so I could go off and get myself killed on an extremely high-risk suicide mission."

"Yeah," she said, to the elf's expression. "Wait. It gets better."

"While I was putting together a team of elite specialists who were actually willing to sign up for something so completely ludicrous, I met Thane. The fact that it was a suicide mission didn't bother him in the slightest, because he was already dying from a terminal disease. And wouldn't you know it, I just _had_ to go and fall for him. Hard. So, _so_ hard."

"At the time, it didn't seem to matter so much. The likelihood of any of us making it back was only slightly greater than zero. All that really mattered was getting the job done - completing the mission. If we all died, well, it _was_ a suicide mission. We all knew the score going in."

"This time, not only did I not die, I managed to keep all my people alive."

Shepard smiled faintly. "Looking back, I have to say the next few months were some of the best. We'd done the fucking impossible, and while the ship was a mess and the crew was a mess, we were alive, we'd handed the Reapers another defeat, and there was _hope_." Her smile faded. "But the light at the end of the tunnel is always an oncoming train."

"A few months ago, the invasion I'd been trying so hard to prevent, or at least to slow down, hit. Within a few short weeks, everything I knew was falling apart. Whole worlds were burning, millions were dead. I'd lost good people, friends, and I'd watched Thane die in my arms… My ship, my crew, my remaining friends were all locked in a battle we only had _one slim chance_ of winning."

"I _got_ that chance, Fenris. It took everything we had left, but I _got_ that chance. And I took the shot, knowing that it would kill me, knowing that this time would be the last. I took it hoping that I died saving what was left to save. That I'd created a future for whoever was left out there. That now I could rest, and that if there was any mercy in the cold, hard universe, I'd be reunited with the man I loved."

Shepard fixed him with a hopeless look. "Instead, I woke up in a sewer, with no idea where I was or how to get back home, or if such a thing was even possible."

She dropped her head into her hands, twisting her fingers into her dark hair. "I want to _give up_, Fenris. I want to give up _so badly_, and I can't. I just… _can't_."

Fenris cleared his throat. "Shepard… _where in the Void are_ _you from_?"

The Spectre took a deep, shuddering breath. "The name wouldn't mean anything to you. And while you'll probably think I'm a demon, or one of those abominations or something…" She got to her feet and came to the elf's left side, kneeling down by the chair. The orange glow lit up around her left wrist, and she ghosted her fingers over the interface. As she drew her fingers away and stretched her arm in front of him, a glowing rectangle sprang up, the length of her forearm and the thickness of a whisper. In the rectangle, against a dark backdrop sprinkled with tiny motes of light, was a large, blue orb mottled with verdant green and dusty brown, and streaked with swirling white.

"There," she said softly. "Earth."

**-ooo-**

"You have a visitor, messere," Bodahn's voice called from the entry. "Guard-Captain Aveline."

"There, Hawke. Aveline will tell you," Varric protested.

The Guard-Captain gave the dwarf a quick frown as she slowly strode up to the pair. "Aveline will tell her what?"

"Hawke has some daft idea about Shepard being from the future," Varric snorted.

Hawke smiled into Aveline's stunned expression. "Hello, Aveline. What a pleasant surprise."

"You… what?" Aveline managed.

"What brings you downstairs?" Hawke continued.

"Hawke… what is Varric talking about?" The Guard-Captain's brows were drawn down over her nose.

"I asked you first," the rogue insisted.

Aveline retained her puzzled expression as she replied. "I… I just wanted to thank you again. I realized I never thanked you properly for helping my guards with Evet's Mauraders, and, well… without your help, I… Donnic…"

"Did you want to give me another kiss?" Hawke inquired mischievously.

Aveline blushed slightly, then seemed to catch herself and said sternly, "Now what was the dwarf babbling about?"

"Babbling?" repeated Varric indignantly. "Questioning Hawke's sanity isn't babbling. It's _concern_."

"So… explain."

Hawke sighed. "I was just thinking that one way to make sense of all the odd little bits and pieces we know about Shepard would be if she actually _was_ from Thedas, only hundreds of years from now."

Aveline gave Hawke a surprised look. "That's… that's the _daftest_ thing I've ever heard."

"See?" said Varric. "I told you."

Hawke folded her arms on her chest. "Fine. I'd like to see you come up with a better explanation." She waved a hand impatiently. "Come on!"

Aveline frowned. "You've both spent more time with her than I have. You know more than I do."

"Give us the benefit of your wisdom anyway," Varric offered.

"Well, she's a soldier," said Aveline. "And not just any soldier, but one used to command."

"Something a little more insightful might be helpful," Hawke suggested. "We already knew both those things."

Aveline shot her an unfriendly look. "She tries not to step on your toes, Hawke, but you can see it's a struggle."

"You step on my toes all the time, Aveline. Usually just when things are about to get interesting," Hawke pouted.

"You're not listening to me, Hawke. _Wherever_ she came from, Shepard knows combat. She's led troops. It's second nature to her."

"So?" said Hawke.

"So?" Aveline gave Hawke a long-suffering look. "You were a soldier. You were at Ostagar. And here in Kirkwall, hardly a week goes by without your name turning up on one of my reports for having taken on Carta or Coterie, or bandits. You've seen more fighting than most of my guards, Hawke. And yet," she fixed Hawke with a pointed stare, "my lieutenant says that it was _Shepard_ who demanded a report, _Shepard_ who gave her her orders, not you. What's more, Lieutenant Harley never thought to question them."

Hawke grinned and opened her mouth to respond, but Aveline cut her off.

"So help me, Hawke, if you try to make some flippant comment, I will scream."

"Don't tempt her, Aveline," said Varric dryly. "What you're trying to say - badly, I might add - is that Shepard is even more of a natural leader than Hawke is herself."

"Yes," said Aveline. "People follow Hawke for all sorts of reasons - friendship, gratitude, to see what will happen next… People follow Shepard because she inspires them to."

"Aveline! Did you just call me uninspiring?" Hawke demanded.

"I didn't mean…"

"Oh, this is just lovely. I'm daft _and_ uninspiring. And your boyfriend thinks I'm spineless."

"Hawke…"

"No! I refuse to listen to another word about my shortcomings until one or the other of you gives me a better answer than the one I came up with!"

"Is it really so important?" Aveline asked shortly.

Varric shook his head. "You really _haven't_ spent time with Shepard, have you?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Aveline demanded suspiciously.

"Shepard is like an itch, or a scab. The mystery of who she is and where she's from is maddening. You just have to pick at it."

Aveline shook her head. "Have you ever thought of just asking her?"

"That would take all the fun out of it," Varric complained.

The Guard-Captain shrugged. "But you would know."

The dwarf squinted at her. "Where was all this logic when you came up with _marigolds_?"

**-ooo-**

Fenris stared at the image before him.

"This is… how is this possible?" he breathed.

"There are hundreds of worlds - thousands. Only a very few are habitable by humans. This world - your world - is one of them. My world - Earth," Shepard's voice thickened, "is another."

Something hot and wet touched the elf's arm. Startled, he looked away from the beautiful sphere. First, to his arm, where a line of moisture ran along the curve of his biceps to the inside of his elbow, and then to Shepard's face, where tears finally overflowed her eyes and ran freely down her cheeks.

Slowly, she withdrew her arm, brushing her fingers over the omni-tool and banishing the image. Shepard pushed herself to her feet and turned her back on him, leaning one arm against the mantle stone and resting her forehead against it.

"I would believe you were lying if I could see the point in it," Fenris said haltingly. "But I cannot."

"It's the truth, whatever you believe," Shepard answered. Her voice was muffled and weary, and Fenris could see the dark drops of her tears as they fell against the flagstone hearth.

"I must accept that it is," he agreed. He was aware that another might offer comfort or reassurance in the form of a touch or an embrace, but such a gesture was beyond his ability to give.

Fenris watched Shepard cry silently before the fire until he saw her hand ball up into a fist and she began pounding it softly against the rough stone. He sensed a dam had broken somewhere, and feared that, however strong she was, Shepard would be swept away by it.

He cleared his throat softly again. "You said you wished me to tell of my escape from Danarius," he said. "Would you still care to hear the tale?"

Shepard's fist stilled, and the fingers suddenly splayed out to grip the stone. She lifted her head from her forearm, but did not look at him.

"Please." Her voice was thick with tears.

"I may have mentioned that the Imperium and the qunari have contested the island of Seheron for centuries. Their struggle continues to this day." His voice was soft, hesitant. "Three years ago, I was there with Danarius when a qunari attack was made. I managed to get him to a ship, but there was no room for a slave. I was left behind. I barely got out of the city alive."

Shepard made a soft sound. "The liberation of slaves is one of the only uses for war," she said bluntly.

"Oh, I had no intention of escaping," Fenris informed her. "That time."

She glanced over her shoulder at him.

Fenris stood and retrieved the bottle of Aggregio from where Shepard had set it, then returned to his seat. He settled himself and took a deep pull.

"There are rebels in the Seheron jungles called Fog Warriors that submit to neither the qunari nor the magisters. They found me and took me in, nursed me back to health. I… stayed with them for a time. Until Danarius finally came for me."

He raised the bottle and examined the glass in the firelight. "I'd grown fond of the rebels. They bowed to no master, and fought for their freedom. It was… beyond my experience. When Danarius came, they refused to let him take me."

"Good," Shepard's voice was barely a whisper.

Fenris took another pull. "He ordered me to kill them. So I did. I killed them all."

What color remained in Shepard's face quickly drained. She turned from the fireplace, eyes furious. The expression on his face brought her up short and she stumbled, dropping to her knees.

"God, Fenris… why?" she choked.

"Danarius ordered it," he said hopelessly, staring down at the bottle in his hands. "It felt inevitable. My master had returned and this… this fantasy life was over."

"But once it was done," he went on, bitterness creeping into his voice, "I looked down at their bodies. I felt… I couldn't…"

He stared into the fire.

"I ran, and never looked back. I stowed aboard a ship to the mainland and moved south, chased by my former master every step of the way."

"He didn't try to stop you when you ran?"

"The rebels had wounded him. The soldiers he brought with him tried to capture me… unsuccessfully. It was weeks before Danarius was able to mount the hunt in earnest, but by then, I was already gone."

Shepard shook her head in disbelief. "You had never thought to escape before then?"

Fenris met her eyes. "You have never been a slave," he said simply, and raised the bottle to his lips again. "A slave does not dream of freedom, or wonder at possibilities. You think only of your master's desires, and what the next hour will bring. It did not occur to me that I could be anything else until I had a taste of it."

He set the bottle carefully on the low table in front of him and stared at it.

"You said you never mourned those you lost," his voice was low, barely audible. "I never mourned those I murdered at my master's command."

Shepard reached out for the Aggregio, and slumped to one hip, resting her shoulder against his chair. Fenris could hear her swallowing as she drank. Then she lifted the bottle and bumped it gently but insistently against his knee.

He shifted his eyes to her face. Shepard wept silently - tears once again leaked slowly from her eyes; some dripping unheeded from her cheeks and others running along her jawbone to trickle down her neck - but there was a fierceness in her gaze.

Fenris recognized it. It was fierceness born in pain.

He wrapped his hand around the bottle, but Shepard didn't relinquish it. Their gauntleted fingers overlapped on the glass, and her eyes burned into his. When she spoke, her voice was raspy and hoarse.

"Though lovers and friends be lost, love shall not; and death shall have no dominion."

* * *

_A/N: I hope that this relieves those of you wondering at Hawke and Varric's lack of reaction to the demon's visions in the Fade. _

_Also, angst. I warned you._

_Some notes to the peanut gallery:_

_I really am appreciating the comments. If it seems like I'm ignoring suggestions for improvement, please rest assured I'm not. A number of you have simply pointed out major flaws in my writing - things I constantly struggle with. Also, I am finding it a challenge to write in installments like this, so I apologize for the added crappiness of my timing, pacing, chapter breaks, and so on. Normally, I sit on things like a broody hen, editing, revising, editing, polishing, revising, editing... sometimes until the damn thing cracks from overhandling. Trying to keep the updates going has been good for me in one respect, but perhaps not so much in others._

_Thank you all for your patience, and for enjoying the story despite its flaws. I am constantly amazed that its garnered so many readers. _

_Lastly, for all: the final line is modified from Dylan Thomas - _And Death Shall Have No Dominion


	19. Chapter 18

_A/N: Finally. Hope you find it worth the wait. _

_As a reminder, herein lies smut. Not much, but if you aren't a fan of mutually pleasurable exchanges between consenting adults... _

_er... you have my sympathy?_

* * *

**Chapter Eighteen**

Shepard awoke to the crackle of dying embers.

She was curled on the floor before a wide fireplace in which chunks of charred wood and glowing coals smoldered. Someone had draped a blanket over her while she slept.

Shepard sat up slowly, wincing as her muscles protested. It wasn't the first time she'd fallen asleep in armor, but, like every other time, she swore it would be the last. Her head thumped dully. Waking with a hangover seemed to be becoming a nasty habit.

Sun shone through the gaps in the ceiling, indicating that the morning was well advanced. Shepard cast her eyes around the room, but there was no sign of Fenris. In the bright light of day, the events of the previous afternoon and evening seemed oddly surreal. She wondered if last night marked a permanent truce between herself and the angry elf.

Whether it was the wine, or the shared ordeal in the Fade, the two of them had established a rapport in which it seemed natural to share their experiences, vastly different though they might be. Despite the fact that he was not another soldier - or, perhaps, because of it - Shepard found herself telling the elf about growing up in the Reds, about those harsh realities which she believed had made her the soldier she was. In return, Fenris had told her what it meant to be a slave and the bodyguard to a powerful magister in the decadent and corrupt Imperium. There had been remarkable candor between them, for two who were far more used to holding their souls fast than baring them. And Shepard had tried, without much success, to describe the world she'd come from; a world beyond anything the elf could imagine.

She wondered, briefly, if Fenris regretted their candor, and if his absence was a sign of his regret. Shepard carefully folded the blanket and placed it on the foot of the bed in the corner. Then she gathered up the spent bottles of the previous night and carried them downstairs while she searched for the kitchen and a bucket.

Although Fenris kept his suite tidy, the rest of the mansion proved to be in a sorry state. Some of the filthy rooms even sported what looked like old blood stains… or worse. When Shepard located the kitchen, it was hard to see how anyone could prepare a meal in it. Signs indicated that Fenris did not - the only corner not layered thickly in dust contained a water pump and a large basin beside a floor drain.

Shepard rinsed the bottles in the basin and set them on a dusty table, then tipped the basin into the drain. Her nose led her to a small chamber containing the now-familiar planks over a slight trench. The only bucket in the room contained ashes. A stack of paper atop the planks turned out to be a much-smudged document apparently penned by Anders. After a moment's breathless study while Shepard familiarized herself with the concept, she rushed through the required functions and sprinkled some ashes liberally over the result. Once finished, she shut the door and stepped quickly away in search of fresh air.

_I never thought I'd miss port-o-johns. But I do. Oh, I do._

Her lips quirked as an idea struck her.

_You know, I could probably make more money than anyone has ever seen before if I could just access a single extranet entry… _indoor plumbing_._

Her eyes grew thoughtful._ In fact, that's not a bad idea…_

Fenris came through the mansion's entry just as Shepard was preparing to exit. There was the usual moment of silent awkwardness that follows a night of alcoholic bonding; a moment which Shepard was prepared to simply ignore, but then Fenris gave her a fleeting smile.

"I thought it would be best to let Hawke know where you were," he said, "in the event she feared you were accosting the qunari again, or worse."

"Given that I'm once again hung over and in need of a bath, it's probably only a matter of time," Shepard sighed. "Do you know if there's a good bath house in Hightown?"

Fenris shook his head. "I wouldn't know. Hawke could tell you. Her estate is just around the corner."

Silence fell again while the two of them watched each other cautiously.

Finally Shepard broke it. "We good?"

For a moment, Fenris looked as though he were struggling with his thoughts, but then he nodded. "I think so, yes," he said.

Shepard couldn't help the smile that crinkled her eyes. "Does this mean you won't accuse me of being a mage anymore, and I won't slam you into cliffs?"

The elf's lips curved. "No promises," he said slyly.

"Fair enough." Shepard continued to the doorway, but paused before going through. "Oh, and Fenris?"

"Yes?"

"Thanks."

**-ooo-**

Shepard pulled herself into the shadow of the doorway, and with her back to the door used the flat of her fist to thump it, dropping her cloak only when she heard bolts slide across on the other side.

"Messere… Shepard?" said Hawke's dwarven servant in surprise.

Shepard waved a hand at him and made a hissing noise. "Quiet. And for god's sake, let me in."

The dwarf backed away from the door with a puzzled expression on his face.

Shepard pushed past him, flattening herself against the inner wall. "Shut the door," she urged, flapping her hand at him again. "Hurry."

The dwarf blinked at her, but did as she bade. Only when he had fastened the bolts again did Shepard relax, sagging against the smooth stone.

"Is there something amiss, messere?"

Shepard gave him a brief glance. "Qunari," she explained tightly.

"Oooh," came Hawke's voice from the entry arch, "how very cloak and dagger!"

With a hint of embarrassment, Shepard pushed herself off the wall. "I swear," she said to the rogue, "the Arishok must wait for me to get hung over."

Hawke gurgled with laughter. "He does seem to enjoy his sense of moral superiority, doesn't he?"

Shepard rolled her eyes. "You aren't kidding."

"Me? I never kid." Hawke managed the words with a deadpan expression, belied only by the sparkle in her eyes. "Are you planning on hiding out all morning, or do you have an exit strategy?"

Shepard snorted. "No, and no. I was just going to drop by to find out where I might find a bath house in Hightown, but then I caught sight of one of those horned bastards coming my way." She sighed. "You wouldn't happen to have a bucket of warm water to spare, would you?"

Hawke laughed again. "This is Hightown, Shepard," she chided. "I have quite a nice bathing chamber, with a stone bathing tub and a boiler."

Shepard tilted her head slightly. "Really? I've got a business proposition for Varric about that."

Hawke's brows jumped. "About my bathing chamber?"

"Not yours specifically, no."

"And here I was, looking forward to a cut of the profits." Hawke sighed theatrically. "Let me just have Bodahn check the boiler for you, and it's all yours."

Shepard gave her a relieved smile. "Thanks, Hawke."

Hawke flashed her a wide-eyed smile. "So… if your qunari knocks, I should just send him up with instructions to wash your back?"

Shepard gave her a flat, unfriendly stare. Hawke just laughed.

_Great, Shepard. You've traveled untold miles just to find yourself at the mercy of another jackass who thinks she's funny. Wherever he's at, Joker's probably smiling…_

**-ooo-**

For the next twenty minutes, Shepard enjoyed the feeling of almost, but not quite, civilization. The stone tub was long enough and deep enough for Shepard to submerge her body, with only her head and shoulders resting against the wide lip of the vessel above the water. One thing that had always irritated her about most bathtubs was that anyone her height would by necessity have to have some body part sticking out of the water, given that the average length was generally less than a meter and a half. Hawke also had a selection of both soaps and bath oils, and Shepard had spent some minutes happily sniffing each until she found those she liked - an almond oil, and a soap that smelled like orange blossoms.

Although the water was delightfully hot to begin with, it cooled rapidly, the stone leaching the heat from the water. But it was enough for a modest soak and a thorough scrubbing. Once she'd let the water drain - evidence that the people of Thedas had _some_ inkling of the concept of plumbing - Shepard was able to position herself under the tap from the boiler and wash her hair.

_There's nothing like soaking your head when you're hung over… Well, except maybe a Bloody Mary and huevos rancheros. And, of course, not drinking _quite_ so much the night before._

Hawke's towels were surprisingly rough - not nearly as nice as the qunari's. Chalk up another advance for the horned giants. Gunpowder, cannons, chemical warfare, and _towels_.

Feeling much revived, Shepard redressed in her armor, thinking longingly of the clothing she'd ordered the day before. She checked Garrus over quickly, slipped her knife out of its sheath to test the blade, and, lastly, made sure the fasteners on her belt pouch were secure. Shepard flexed and rolled her shoulders briefly to settle the armor, took a final look around the bathing chamber to be sure she'd tidied everything properly, and slipped out the door and down the stairs.

Hawke was near the small secretary desk in the main hall, being harangued by an elegant middle-aged woman who bore a strong resemblance to the rogue.

"I don't see why not," the woman was saying. "Jean-Augustine De Launcet is a fine young man, and only a few years younger than you are. The De Launcets are a well-established family in Kirkwall."

Hawke set her hands on her hips and rolled her eyes. "Jean-Augustine is a year younger than _Bethany_, mother."

Hawke's mother's mouth set grimly. "And perhaps if Bethany weren't in the Circle, _she_ would see reason and accept his invitation." The elder Hawke folded her arms on her chest. "I was betrothed to Guilliame before I married your father, you know."

The younger Hawke sighed. "Yes, I know, mother."

Hawke's mother dropped her hands to her sides. "You know I only want what's best for you, dear."

Hawke caught sight of Shepard on the stairs. "And here's Shepard."

Shepard gave her a quizzical look. "Hawke. Thanks again for the loan of your tub. I miss being clean."

"Your qunari never knocked, I'm sorry to say," Hawke said with mock pity.

"I'm heartbroken."

"I knew you would be. Have you met my mother?" Hawke turned back to the older woman. "Mother, this is my friend Catriona Shepard. Shepard, this is my mother, Leandra Amell Hawke."

Shepard gave the elder Hawke a polite smile and held out her hand. "A pleasure to meet you, ma'am."

Leandra Hawke gave Shepard a smile as she took her hand. "Catriona is such a lovely name, my dear. You shouldn't let my daughter's refusal to go by her own given name influence you."

Shepard chuckled. "She hasn't, I assure you. I haven't gone by my given name since I was a child. I am… _was_… a soldier."

"A soldier? My son Carver wanted so much to be a soldier," Leandra replied with a hint of sadness.

Shepard gave Hawke a curious look. "I didn't know you had a brother," she said.

Hawke's face fell. "He… was killed during the Blight."

"I'm sorry for your loss," Shepard said softly. She touched Leandra's shoulder gently. "I'm sure he would have been a fine soldier."

Hawke snorted. "No, he wouldn't. Carver never took orders very well."

"Lillian Hawke!"

"What?" Hawke protested. "Carver had many good qualities, mother, but following orders was not one of them. He was far too stubborn."

Leandra sighed, but there was a glint in her eye. "A Hawke failing," she admitted.

Shepard covered her mouth and coughed lightly to hide her smile.

"Yes," agreed Hawke sternly. "Which is why I am _not_ going out with Jean-Augustine De Launcet."

"I'll just leave you two to your discussion, then," Shepard murmured, shooting Hawke an amused glance. "Lady Hawke," she nodded to Leandra. "With any luck, I can find some breakfast before the qunari find me."

Leandra nodded back. "It was lovely to meet you, dear. I do hope you and Lily are joking about those terrible horned savages. Honestly, I don't know why Marlowe Dumar allows them in the city."

Hawke huffed. "Probably because the Arishok gave him that _look_. You know the one, Shepard." The rogue assumed a cool, distracted expression that nevertheless seemed to indicate that you were already dead, she just hadn't gotten around to killing you yet.

"Ah, yes," said Shepard. "That one."

"Lily!"

"Bet you a sovereign…"

**-ooo-**

The bakery was small and tucked away between the Merchant's Guildhall and the red-light district, but it seemed to be doing very good business. Based on the delicious smells coming from the baker's stall, it was easy to understand why.

Shepard selected several pastries - two sweet, and one savory - and had the baker's assistant wrap the sweet treats for her for later. The savory pastry she bit into immediately; it had a crisp, golden shell but was delightfully soft and fluffy in texture inside, with herbs baked into the dough and a rich ham and cheese filling. It was still warm from the oven and quite possibly one of the best things Shepard had tasted in her life.

She rolled her eyes in pleasure as she took another bite, strolling back in the direction of the markets. She stopped at a few stalls to make some additional purchases - some lemon and almond scented soap, a comb and brush, and, after a bit of thought, a simple cutthroat razor and a string bag like Anders'.

Shepard licked her fingers as she popped the last bite of her pastry into her mouth. She felt oddly elated by the small expenditures, and when she caught the gleam of red lacquer on a spearhead, she smiled wolfishly and headed in its direction.

No enemy could have been stalked with greater care. Shepard flitted through the Hightown markets like a wraith, keeping to her quarry's six, drawing ever and ever nearer until she was finally only an arm's length away.

She prodded his shoulder blade sharply, and immediately stepped back to a defensive angle, anticipating the possibility of a reflexive attack in response.

The horned soldier practically leapt out of his skin, making a startled chuff that sounded suspiciously like a muffled yelp. He spun, hand closing over the shaft of the spear even as he dropped into a defensive crouch.

_Oh, I wish I could have recorded that to replay whenever I was feeling down. That was… _priceless_._

Shepard grinned at him. "I'll see the Arishok now," she said.

The soldier's eyes narrowed to slits. "Basra," he grunted, straightening his back and releasing his weapon.

Shepard's grin widened slightly. "You allowed yourself to be surprised," she commented.

The giant's lips thinned and drew downward in a scowl. "It will not happen again," he grated shortly.

"Perhaps," she said, enigmatically. Without waiting for the qunari to speak further, Shepard started for the nearest stairwell to Lowtown and the docks, leaving the massive soldier to follow after her in stony silence.

She pushed the pace when she reached the Lowtown bazaar, stretching her stride and letting her long legs eat up the ground easily. When she reached the final stairway to the docks, she rattled down them in a tight jog, causing the blood to thump in her ears.

_Note to self. Self, a hangover is a hangover no matter what your mood. Take it easy on the jogging until you've rehydrated._

Still, Shepard couldn't help but take the steps to the qunari gate at the dogtrot she normally used while on patrol. She stopped before the gate guard and looked him in the eye.

"I'm here to see the Arishok," she informed him.

There was the sound of grumbling over her head as the guard and the soldier conversed in their own tongue.

_Wait… there's something wrong here. The gate guard didn't know I was coming?_

"You will be permitted, basra." The guard swung the gate open.

Shepard cocked an eyebrow at him, but entered anyway. The soldier, who had followed her through the city like a dog at heel, stopped her just inside with a hand to her arm.

"You will wait here," he instructed.

"No," Shepard replied.

The soldier's eyes slitted dangerously. "It was not a request."

Shepard eyeballed him, and kept walking.

This time, the hand on her arm jerked her backward. Shepard had been expecting it, however, and used the motion to capture the qunari's elbow, turning his arm over smoothly and breaking his grip, but making no attempt to lock the arm the way the counter intended. Shepard wanted to _push_, not _shove_.

Two large, painted warriors were suddenly blocking her path with the kind of stance that is only seconds away from precisely controlled violence.

The soldier spoke a word to them and their posture relaxed slightly, though they still continued to bar her way forward.

"Do not seek to try our patience, basra," the soldier told her evenly. "Even _you_ would find it an impossible fight."

_Even _you_… _Shepard felt a surge of pride.

She folded her arms. "Compromise," she stated flatly. "I will accompany you to the Arishok, but will wait patiently while you speak to him first."

"No."

The Spectre's jaw bunched as she ground her teeth. "_Compromise_," she repeated. "It means give and take. One of those words you people seem to have little grasp of. Like _appointment_, _conversation_, and _respect_."

"There _is_ no respect, for bas." There was the tiniest hint of a growl in the qunari's response. "Respect must be _earned_."

"True," said Shepard coolly. "And do you think you've earned it yet?"

_Ooh. Careful, Shepard. That one scored…_

The giant's hands bunched at his side. "Pashaara," he snapped. "Come."

The other two melted aside as the angry solider led her forward, deeper into the compound. They bypassed what Shepard persisted in thinking of as the Arishok's throne, and she soon recognized the library tent she'd been brought to before.

It was clear from his folded arms and the faintly irritated expression on his face that word of her arrival had already reached the Arishok. Nevertheless, Shepard did as she had promised and remained silent while her escort rattled off a lengthy string of words. At one point in the narration, the Arishok's eyebrow twitched, and he swung his gaze to Shepard. She answered it with a level stare.

After the soldier finished his report, the Arishok spoke a few short words and he departed, stepping past Shepard as if she were not even there.

"Basra," the Arishok said with some distaste. "Why do you disturb me?"

"You seem surprised," Shepard answered. "I got the impression that preemptively requesting another's presence was customary among your people."

The Arishok's jaw tensed. "You, _a bas_, demand respect from _me_?" he thundered.

Shepard didn't bat an eyelash. "No more than you demand from me."

"You are bas. A… _thing_. Beneath notice," his voice was heavy with contempt.

"You owe this _thing_ your life," Shepard reminded him. "But," she added, holding out both hands to interrupt the retort on his lips, "can we set aside the posturing and leg lifting for a moment and have a simple, civil conversation for once?"

"Speak plainly."

Shepard laughed. "This, coming from you? Very well." She took a few steps further into the tent and waved a hand at the heavy table. "I politely _ask_ you to sit down and have a conversation with me."

"No. I will not be commanded by such as you."

"I didn't command. I _asked_." Shepard calmly pulled out the stool on which she'd sat previously and settled herself on it comfortably, endeavoring to convey through body language that she wasn't going anywhere.

"And I said no," the Arishok replied. "And yet here you sit," he made a sweeping gesture, his voice tinged with mockery.

"No problem," Shepard answered, giving him a steely glance. "I can wait until it's convenient."

The Arishok glared at her. "You are stubborn, basra."

"Yep."

"And maddening."

"Yep. Pastry?" Shepard unwrapped her treats from the bakery.

"Do you think, for a moment, I would hesitate to kill you?"

Shepard was on him in a flash, her left arm extended, her omni-blade a few centimeters from the Arishok's throat.

"You could _try_."

She held the blade for the span of a few heartbeats, then let it dissipate, sitting back on the stool as if nothing had happened. "You wouldn't happen to have any of that tea, would you? It would go really nicely with the pastries."

"You see? You threaten, but do not act," said the Arishok pointedly, with a curl of his lip.

"I don't want you dead," Shepard answered simply. "You may be useful to me."

She rose again and moved slowly back in front of the giant. Using the same careful deliberation he'd shown her in their last encounter, she reached forward and took one of his huge hands, turning it palm up before her and gently depositing one of the pastries in it. "Tea," she said. "Sit. Talk." She raised her eyebrows. "_Please_."

The Arishok looked down at the pastry in his hand. A deep rumbling sound came from his chest, reverberating in the confines of the small tent.

**-ooo-**

_Shepard delighted in the taste of Thane on her tongue as she kissed her way down his neck, nipping at his collarbone as she passed her mouth over it and along his chest. She knew she would never tire of the beauty of his body; the way his muscles knit together so perfectly, the deep emerald green of his smooth, silken scales. _

_Her fingers trailed over his flesh - now pads, now nails - seeking every sensitive spot with unerring precision. And still her mouth moved, kissing, nibbling, tracing the line between abdominals and obliques to his hipbone. _

Ah, those hipbones…

_Shepard's body felt full of champagne bubbles, her head filled with effervescent light. With a sensual chuckle deep in her throat, she bit down sharply on Thane's hip, nipping her way along the inner plane and eliciting a growl and an involuntary buck from the drell. _

His weakness.

_She slid her tongue around the ridges at the base of his shaft and lapped her way upward. As she took the head of his cock between her lips, she curled her fingers, drawing her nails over the delicate scales from hipbone to inner thigh. _

**One** of his weaknesses…

_Thane bucked again, and Shepard used the motion to suck him deep into her mouth, her tongue teasing swirls along his length. Her mind filled with fireflies and the sound of exploding dandelions while she toyed with him playfully, sucking hard on the tip of his cock and then plunging him deep to the back of her throat, sucking up his shaft slowly and running her tongue around the ridges at the head before suckling him gently. _

_Thane's growl intensified and his hands reached for her. "Siha…"_

_Shepard chuckled again and captured his wrists firmly, beginning a torturously slow, irregular pace against him. The assassin's breath came sharply, his wrists tensing in Shepard's grasp as he rolled his hips, seeking desperately for the rhythm Shepard was denying him. _

"_Siha." The growl became a warning rumble. Shepard was lost in an endless green ocean, the deep thrum the sound of tectonic plates slipping far below her; threatening, thrilling. She looked up into Thane's eyes, her pupils blown wide, hands gripping his wrists tightly while her mouth relentlessly continued to push the bounds of his control._

_Shepard could feel the rumble in every cell now, filling her with an overwhelmingly delicious sense of danger. Adrenaline coursed through her veins like quicksilver, setting every nerve on fire. She sped up, finally matching Thane's rhythm, hot and demanding… and then _stopped_._

_Thane's control shattered._

_The assassin broke Shepard's hold on his wrists and grabbed her, throwing her onto her side. He captured her leg, pushing her knee to her chest, and drove into her deeply, wrenching something that was half growl, half groan from his throat. He set a punishing pace, each powerful thrust sinking deeper into her velvet heat, taking her with a savage ferocity. It was primal, and _perfect_._

_Thane, control gone. Thane, dark eyes wild. Thane, consumed with desire._

…never let this moment end…

_Shepard screamed as the tsunami crashed around her._

**-ooo-**

Shepard shuddered as the rumble washed over her, pushing the inappropriate thoughts and memories away abruptly.

Nevertheless, the Arishok noticed the movement. His lifted his gaze from the pastry in his hand, and his yellow eyes pinned her sharply.

"You must be hungry," Shepard offered by way of distraction. "I can hear your stomach growling from here."

"It is not hunger," the Arishok replied, his eyes narrowing. "It is… irritation."

Shepard repressed a shiver, and with extreme effort, managed to shrug nonchalantly as she lifted her pastry and bit at it. The flavors of cinnamon, hazelnuts and butter exploded on her tongue.

"Mmm," she hummed, not entirely for the Arishok's benefit. "They're really tasty."

"Leave, basra. I lack the patience for you today."

"You lack patience every day, Arishok," Shepard complained. "I've never met a more impatient person." _Who wasn't a krogan_, she added silently.

That rumble was back, louder and deeper. Shit, if he was going to make that dangerously sexy sound at her every time she seriously pissed him off, she was _really_ going to need some underwear.

"You have yet to see me lose my patience, basra," he warned. "Leave. I will send for you again when I have decided."

"Decided what?" Shepard took another bite of her pastry.

The giant's eyes went hooded and dark. "What I intend to do about you."

Shepard sighed. "Fine," she said with resignation. "Have it your way." Her mouth twisted. "Oh," she added sarcastically, "that's right… you always do."

She slipped off the stool and went to the tent flap, pausing as she lifted it.

"Just remember, Arishok… you haven't seen me lose my patience, either." She shot him a look over her shoulder. "_Compromise_. I suggest you learn what it means."

**-ooo-**

_Fucking qunari._

Shepard was seething by the time she left the compound. She'd kept it together admirably, strolling through the horned giants and eating her pastry with every semblance of nonchalance, while inside she raged.

She'd had enough of the Arishok and his contemptuous condescension. Why the hell was she bothering with him, anyway?

_Star charts, technology, and fucking _towels_, that's why._

And what the fuck was up with that rumble? He didn't have a drell or a turian's complex vocal physiology. Where did it come from? And why the _fuck_ did it have to bring up memories like that? She certainly as hell didn't have a drell's affinity for solipsism…

"Shepard!"

Shepard snapped out of her irritable reverie and glanced around, looking for the source.

Hawke was jogging toward her through the Lowtown bazaar, a look of deep concern on her face. Behind her were Fenris and Varric.

"Hawke? What's wrong?"

Hawke gave her a smile, but it was strained. "You didn't happen to have tucked an entire qunari delegation in your belt pouch, did you?"

"I get enough of the qunari as it is. I certainly don't need to save any for later," Shepard growled.

"You just come from the compound?" Varric asked, his head on one side.

Shepard grimaced. "How can you tell?"

"I can't. But you look like you want to punch your way through a wall. Or a dwarf's head. Either way, it makes me uncomfortable."

"I swear that man has a stick up his ass the size of the Citadel," she muttered darkly. "I thought we were making progress last time. Or, if not _progress_, at least _something_."

Hawke and her squad exchanged glances. "What happened?" Hawke asked cautiously.

"Nothing. He was even more insufferable than usual is all," Shepard grumbled. "And I gave him a pastry and everything."

"You had tea and crumpets with the Arishok?" Varric's voice was half sarcasm and half wonderment.

"No tea," Shepard snorted. "His Almighty Exaltedness wouldn't send for any."

Varric gave her a look. "You never cease to amaze me, Shepard."

"She is a remarkably unusual woman, that is sure," Fenris agreed.

Hawke frowned. "Did the Arishok say anything about missing envoys?"

"What?" Shepard's brow rose. "No. Should he?"

The look was passed around the group again.

"The Arishok sent some men to the Viscount as a sort of… diplomatic envoy," Hawke said slowly. "The talk seemed to go well, the delegates left… and just disappeared."

"Disappeared?" Shepard demanded. "How does a pack of qunari disappear? They're huge, and they don't bother to be subtle."

"That does seem to be the burning question," murmured Fenris.

"They're soldiers, not spies!" Shepard went on. "Diplomatic mission or not. And if the Arishok was _intending_ to send spies, he wouldn't have had them knock first."

Hawke sighed. "Well, there goes any chance of this ending pleasantly… Come on," she gestured for Shepard to follow. "We might need your qunari-charming abilities."

"_What_ qunari-charming abilities?"

"All _I've_ ever gotten are riddles and threats. You've bathed with them and had milk and cookies with the Arishok. _I_ call _that_ charm. "

"There wasn't any milk, either." Shepard complained. "And you make it sound like I was surrounded by qunari cabana boys or something."

"I'll get you an ale when we get to the Hanged Man," Varric soothed.

"Cabana boys?" Fenris asked.

Shepard shrugged. "Beautiful young men who bring you fruity rum drinks and cater to your every whim while you relax on a beach somewhere."

"_There's_ a picture," said Varric dryly.

"I'd pay to see it," Hawke agreed.

"Never going to happen," Fenris stated baldly.

**-ooo-**

The Hanged Man was more crowded than usual for an early afternoon. Drink and coin seemed to be flowing fairly freely at one particular table.

"I recognize some of those men," said Fenris quietly. "They're city guard. I think we've found what we're looking for."

When one of the men got up to order another round from Corff, Hawke and her team moved closer.

"Looks like someone's had a run of luck," said Shepard

The man turned and looked Shepard up and down, and smiled at what he saw. "That's right, love," he replied. "Tonight I've been paid and blessed. And all I had to do was turn my head."

He returned to the table and lifted his bottle. "To all my friends," he toasted. "We're going to show this city what to do with heathen ox-men."

Hawke's squad fanned out a little as they approached the table. "How about an introduction to the one who paid you?" Shepard asked him, her voice low. "I like a man with deep pockets."

"Do you now?" he answered. "If I was after a whore, I'd be at the Rose."

Shepard grabbed him by his tunic and hauled him into her knee. Hard.

"Wrong answer," murmured Fenris.

"Ouch," Hawke commented. "That had to hurt."

"Let's try that again," Shepard growled. "Who paid you?"

"I… I…" The man glanced to the others at the table, who seemed suddenly oblivious to his presence.

With her fingers still buried in the man's tunic, Shepard spun, slamming him into one of the heavy support pillars so hard a faint rain of soot fell from the ceiling.

"Watch it," yelled Corff from the bar.

"Look at it this way, friend," said Varric helpfully. "What could possibly be worse than what's going to happen to you in the next few minutes if you don't talk?"

The man swallowed. "He… he was a Templar. He didn't give me his name, I swear! He had the seal of the Grand Cleric and everything. True as true!"

Shepard brought her face close and watched the man's thick mustache tremble. "I've been fighting the urge to smash someone's face in all morning," she said, her voice no less threatening because it was soft. "I suggest you get the hell out of here before I lose that fight."

She released him, and the man scrambled away, nearly falling over his own feet in his haste. Shepard shook her head and turned to Hawke.

"I thought you said the Grand Cleric was a sweet old lady that reminded you of your grandmother."

Hawke shrugged. "I said _somebody's_ grandmother. I never knew mine."

"Do sweet old ladies often make a practice of kidnapping giants?" Shepard asked. She shook her head incredulously. "What am I saying? How is this even possible? They're soldiers. Giant, well-trained, exquisitely conditioned soldiers. How did this not become a public bloodbath?"

Hawke shifted uneasily. "The seneschal had their weapons bound into their sheaths."

"What?"

"Don't look at me! It wasn't my stupid idea, it was Bran's."

Shepard sighed. "Well? What now?"

"I think it's time I had a talk with the Grand Cleric," Hawke said firmly. "This isn't the first time the Chantry's involved itself where it shouldn't."

"What about your friend Sebastian? Would he know anything?"

Varric shook his head. "Doubtful. Choir Boy would never be involved in something like this."

"He might know something," Hawke admitted. "But Varric's right - Sebastian would never be a party to kidnapping."

"Your call," Shepard acknowledged. "I agree that he seems unlikely to have played a part in this, but he does live and work there. He could still be useful as a contact."

"Either way, it looks like we're off to the Chantry."

**-ooo-**

"Hawke," Sebastian's expression was one of mixed suspicion and incredulousness, "you don't _actually_ believe that the Grand Cleric could have anything to do with this?"

The rogue shrugged. "I'll admit, it does seem unlikely. But he says he saw the seal."

"And you'd believe a man who takes his duty so lightly that he could be paid to forsake it?"

"I doubt he's intelligent enough to invent that kind of detail," Varric pointed out.

Sebastian did not seem mollified in the least. "There must be some explanation. Perhaps it was not the seal he saw. If the man is not overly blessed with brains, the Templar could have shown him anything and claimed it was the seal."

"Who has access to the seal?" asked Shepard. "Is it something that just anyone could get hold of?"

The Prince of Starkhaven shook his head. "No. Only the Grand Cleric or someone close to her would have access to the seal._ If_ it was indeed the seal," he added meaningfully. "There is simply no way I will believe Elthina had anything to do with the delegates' disappearance."

"He has a point," Varric mused. "I don't know if I would know what the Grand Cleric's seal actually looks like, apart from having seen it's imprint at some time or another."

"So you think it's some kind of conspiracy to make it seem as if the Chantry is behind the kidnapping?" Shepard rubbed her forehead and sighed irritably. "We're supposed to be eliminating variables, not adding them."

"I would believe _that_ before I believed the Grand Cleric was involved," Sebastian retorted.

Hawke shook her head and strode off, intent clearly written in her posture.

"Hawke!" Sebastian went after her, reaching out as if to catch her wrist. "Please don't tell me you're going to accuse the Grand Cleric of abducting foreign diplomats!"

Hawke stopped and turned toward him, her face oddly serious. "No. I'm going to _ask_ her if she knows anything about it."

"It amounts to the same thing."

"No. It doesn't," Hawke's voice was tight, with no sign of her usual banter.

Sebastian searched Hawke's eyes for a long minute. "And if she says she knows nothing?"

"I will take her at her word. And I'll find out who might have been able to access the seal in the last day or so."

"Hawke…"

"Elthina should know that someone has done this, Sebastian," Hawke said impatiently. "Think about it. If this is not a plot that was born in the Chantry, it aims to cast blame at their feet. Do you want the Viscount or the Arishok to come seeking answers?"

Mutely, Sebastian shook his head. "You will be… tactful? Please?"

The ready smile returned to Hawke's lips. "I'm always tactful. It's not my fault some people are… oversensitive."

Sebastian said nothing.

Hawke turned from him and accosted a nearby sister.

"The Grand Cleric, please. Tell her…" Hawke shot a glance at Sebastian, "tell her I have a very _tactful_ question for her."

Before the sister could go, a fair-haired woman wearing ornate Chantry robes moved out from an embrasure. "Serah Hawke," she said.

Hawke looked up with surprised recognition. Behind it, Shepard could see something click, and the rogue's eyes narrowed the tiniest bit. "Sister Petrice," she replied.

_Jackpot? Hawke thinks so._

"_Mother_ Petrice," the woman corrected. "Time has changed us both."

When Hawke failed to respond, the woman shook her head slightly. "Grand Cleric Elthina cannot grant an audience to just anyone," she said stiffly. "What do you want?"

"Pardon, revered mother," Sebastian interjected. "It is an important matter of some delicacy."

Hawke waved a hand at him. "No need, Sebastian." She stepped closer to the priestess. "I know you. And I know someone's abusing the Grand Cleric's seal."

The mother's face drew into a scowl. "Who are you to question who serves Her Grace? I am sorry, but I see no reason to let you pass."

Hawke tilted her head slightly, her eyes cold. "How about the fact that her authority was used to abduct qunari?"

Petrice did not respond. Hawke allowed a sly smile to lift her lips.

"A pause that says you knew. But does Her Grace?"

"The Grand Cleric trusts her stewards to enact the wishes of the Maker," Petrice stated loftily.

Hawke's eyes widened. "It sounds like you've been bad," she purred. "This will shock Her Grace, no doubt."

"You did not!" Sebastian said hotly to the mother. "That you could abuse the Grand Cleric's trust…"

"Stubborn," muttered Petrice. "All right, serah," she continued. "If you won't abandon this, let me offer you something. The Templar you seek is a radical who has grown… unreliable. Confronting him may do us all a favor."

Hawke narrowed her eyes. "And his relation to you is…?"

"He is my former bodyguard, Ser Varnell," Petrice told her. "Assume what you wish, but I offer him to you as… reconciliation."

She handed a scrap of parchment to Hawke. "Meet me at this location. I invite you, serah Hawke… come see the unrest these qunari have inspired."

With a final glance at Sebastian, the mother retreated.

Varric coughed quietly. "That's a setup," he murmured.

Hawke sighed. "It's her game, for the moment."

"Hawke… I," Sebastian looked dumbstruck, "I don't know what to say."

"There's nothing to say, Sebastian. I suspect that Petrice will do everything in her power to keep you from Elthina, but if you can, you should let her know as soon as possible."

Sebastian's eyes were troubled. "And you? What do you plan to do?"

Hawke shrugged. "I have to do what I can to recover the qunari."

The prince reached out to grip Hawke's shoulder. "Be careful. I do not like this."

"I have a feeling it's only going to get worse…"

**-ooo-**

"All the best people hang out in Darktown," Varric muttered sourly.

"Thanks," said Shepard.

"You don't count. Are you sure you don't want to take that room at the Hanged Man?"

"Positive. I'm thinking of trying to find a place in the alienage, actually."

"Did you grow pointy ears and a sullen attitude when I wasn't looking, Shepard?"

"I like it there."

"Suit yourself."

As they drew closer to the spot marked on Petrice's rough map, a faint voice could be heard, raised in fevered oratory.

"Do not fear them. They die, like any animal…"

"Sounds like we're just in time," Shepard said quietly.

"Have I mentioned how much I hate crazy?" Hawke complained. "And this Varnell is crazy."

"Like any beast," Varnell ranted, "remove the fangs and it is lost. They are weak before the faithful of the Maker."

There was a sound like a slab of meat hitting a counter. The squad came around the corner to see three qunari, arms bound behind them, pushed against a wall. By the look on the closest giant's face, Varnell was taking the opportunity to put the boot in.

"The only certainty in their precious qun is death before the righteous!"

"Can I kill him now?" Shepard growled.

"Ser Varnell!" Mother Petrice's voice rang out loudly.

The Templar whirled. When he saw Petrice, his face split in a smile and he held his arms out in welcome.

"Take a knee, faithful. The Chantry blesses us," he exulted.

"You claim a blessing when you have used the authority of the Grand Cleric so openly?" Petrice demanded. "You have brought wrath down upon you."

The priestess' face was twisted in a mockery of a smile as she turned toward Hawke and her companions. "You remember serah Hawke? The qunari have friends, Templar. How will you answer their allegations?"

"You want to fight?" Hawke demanded. "Face someone whose weapons are not bound."

Varnell's eyes narrowed, and his lip drew back in a sneer. He drew a knife from his belt and raised it to the qunari's throat.

"Righteous," he cried, "destro…"

The rifle report was impossibly loud in the close confines of the underground room. Varnell swayed for a moment on his feet before crumpling.

The eyes of all in the room swung to Shepard.

"He talked too much," she stated, lowering Garrus slightly.

Petrice bolted like a frightened rabbit, but the mob, which in Shepard's estimation should have been running for the hills, drew weapons.

"Shit." Shepard swung Garrus back over her shoulder and sprinted for the captive qunari.

Two were down before she arrived, omni-blade scything through the largely unarmored humans swarming the qunari. She fought her way to the final qunari's side just as he dropped to a knee.

Shepard caught a hammer on it's downswing with her arm, kicking the man wielding it squarely in the groin. As he doubled over, she thrust her omni-blade into the junction between neck and shoulder. He grunted and slipped to the ground, but Shepard's right arm dangled uselessly.

"What? Are you people fucking indoctrinated?" she yelled, bringing her omni-blade down on an attacker's arm, nearly severing it. "Give up! Run away!"

"The Maker will protect us!" cried one of the mob, just as Fenris cleaved him practically in two with his great sword.

"The Maker will get you killed!" Shepard shouted. "Put down your weapons! Do it now!"

There was some hesitation among a few of the zealots, but not enough. The others pressed forward.

"To hell with it," Shepard muttered. "Varric!"

"I'm a little busy right now, Shepard," called the dwarf.

"I need a volley of arrows on my position as soon as you can manage it!"

"That's crazy, Shepard!"

"Damn it, Varric, just do it!"

"You heard the lady, Varric," Hawke shouted. "Hit them hard."

Varric grunted and dropped back a few paces, slotting a sabot into place. With practiced ease, he sighted on the mob constricting around Shepard and the qunari, and let the bolts fly.

"Here you go, Shepard!"

Shepard shoved the nearest mobee into his fellows and turned her back, throwing her body over the wounded qunari. Bolts bounced off her shields. Around her were the cries and groans of the faithful as they were cut down en masse.

The bolts were followed by Fenris, sweeping his sword in great arcs to finish off the dying and wounded. Hawke was running to cut off a group of reinforcements coming down a set of stairs to the south.

At last, all Varnell's fanatics lay dead. The wounded qunari slumped, half kneeling, half-sitting against the wall. Shepard ran her omni-tool over the giant, scanning his injuries.

She looked at the results and swore.

"How fast do you think we can get him to Anders?" she asked.

"Not very," was Hawke's unhappy answer.

"Fuck. If only I had some medi-gel," Shepard snarled. "A first aid kit… something!"

Hawke rummaged in a pouch. "We've got some healing poultices, and some elfroot potions. They can…" Hawke glanced at the gravely wounded qunari. "Well, they can't hurt."

"Fenris," Shepard said, as Hawke knelt beside the giant and began applying the poultices, "get to Anders as quick as you can and get his ass back here on the double. Got me?"

Fenris' eyes flicked to Hawke. "Yes."

"Varric - cut some of the shirts off our unfortunate religious friends. Tear them into strips we can use for bandages."

"Shepard, your arm…" the dwarf began.

"Broken," Shepard replied flatly. "Now get to it."

Hawke was helping the qunari drink one of the potions. He didn't look happy about it, but he was in no shape to protest.

When he'd drained the little vial, Hawke got to her feet.

"Shepard… will you be all right if I leave you here with Varric until Anders arrives?"

"Don't worry about me, Hawke."

Hawke sighed. "All right. Time to bring this mess to the Viscount's attention."

**-ooo-**

"I'm sorry, Shepard. I did everything I could," Anders' voice was weary. "He was too far gone by the time I arrived."

Shepard had picked up quite a few swear words from her team over the years. She let loose a string of turian oaths that would have made her best friend wince, and only partly from her pronunciation.

"If you say so," said Varric. "Will you let Blondie take a look at your arm, now, please?"

Shepard heaved a sigh. "It's going to have to be set. I'll have to take my armor off."

"How bad is it?" Anders asked.

Shepard gave a one-sided shrug. "I've had worse."

Anders gently helped remove the armor from her right arm and shoulder.

"The break is in the lower third of the humerus," Shepard informed him. "Thanks to that heavy bone weave Mordin and Chakwas came up with, it's cleaner than it could be. Once it's set, there shouldn't be any problems."

The healer gave her a puzzled look. "Are you so aware of your body that you can tell all that?"

Shepard looked surprised. "Hell, no," she laughed shortly. "My hardsuit computer scanned the injury. If I'd have had any supply of medi-gel left, it would have administered treatment to keep me stable. All it could do this time was inform me of the extent of my injuries."

"I understood about three words in that statement," Anders said dryly, running his hand gently over Shepard's upper arm.

"It doesn't really matter," Shepard raised an eyebrow. "Can you set it?"

"Yes." Anders gave her a sympathetic look. "Usually I have a supply of Corff's finest rotgut for bone-setting. It's going to hurt."

"I know. Just get it done."

"Fenris?" Anders said briskly. "Could you help hold Shepard's shoulder stable for me?"

The elf looked uncertain. "What do you need me to do?"

Anders showed Fenris how to hold her shoulder to help isolate Shepard's arm during the setting. Then he carefully positioned himself. "Ready?" he asked.

Shepard nodded.

With a sharp movement, Anders re-aligned the bone. Shepard bit off another oath, krogan this time, and glanced down at her omni-tool. "Looks like we got it on the first try," she grunted. "Thank god."

Anders ran his hand down the arm again himself, to verify. "Yes. It feels good."

A warm tingling filled Shepard's arm. The feeling was similar to both to the pins and needles sensation of a limb falling asleep, and the mild static discharges that came from touching a biotic, particularly one charged with dark energy. She grimaced.

"Does that hurt?" Anders asked her curiously.

Shepard shook her head. "Just…strange."

Hawke's voice came from the southern stairwell. "I got back as quickly as I could," she said. Behind her were Aveline and a detachment of her guard, surrounding the person of Marlowe Dumar. "Did the qunari make it?"

Anders shook his head. "No. I'm sorry."

"Maker's tits and ass!" Hawke said in frustration.

Dumar slowly took in the carnage in the room.

"Madness," he said in disbelief. "_Madness_."

"That's a way of putting it," Hawke agreed.

The Viscount looked down at the armored body of Ser Varnell. "Chantry involvement, even if they _are_ fringe elements… it could not be worse."

His eyes swept the room again. "You killed them?" he asked. "All of them?"

Hawke's face hardened. "A mother serving the Grand Cleric allowed this to happen," she stated flatly.

Dumar looked surprised. "You're sure about this? She held a blade with them, told them to attack you?"

Hawke hesitated. "No," she said quietly. "I cannot say that."

"Of course not." The Viscount's face grew sour. "Blasted mother!" He gave Hawke a wry look. "You have no idea the storms these allegations would cause. It would destroy what support I do have."

Hawke nodded slowly. "I have had trouble with her before. She is…" Hawke paused to consider, "…_slippery_."

Dumar grunted. "I understand. I will make my inquiries gently." His expression grew stern. "And you should be careful in your associations." He sighed. "For now, we have other problems."

His gaze traveled to the qunari corpses. For a time, Dumar remained staring thoughtfully at the bodies. "We have the delegate, but we can't return the bodies to the qunari in this state."

Anders removed his hands from Shepard's arm. "How does it feel?"

Shepard flexed her arm and rolled her shoulder. She wiggled her fingers. "Good," she said. "There's an ache, though."

Anders nodded. "It should go away quickly."

The Viscount suddenly looked up, and turned to face Hawke. "Serah Hawke," he said. "You know the Arishok. What should I do?"

Shepard gave him a sharp look. "The Arishok deserves to know what happened to his men," she ground out.

Hawke agreed. "Hiding this would only make it worse."

Dumar let out a breath. "It would, wouldn't it." He rubbed at his forehead wearily. "I'm losing my sense of how to balance this nightmare."

His hand fell away, and he straightened his shoulders. "I appreciate your help in this," he said sincerely. "As bad as it is, it could have been much worse without you. Kirkwall owes you."

He gave her a small, sad smile.

"_I_ owe you."

**-ooo-**

"Oh, this is not going to be fun." Hawke rubbed her face slowly. "And to think, this morning started off so well…"

"Arguing with your mother over Jean-Augustine whatever?" Shepard asked slyly.

Hawke sighed. "Poor Jean-Augustine. It's not his fault he was gifted with a weak chin and watery eyes."

"Or that you habitually spend your time with attractive men with chins of granite and eyes like tropical pools."

"I prefer _eyes like warm honey_," Anders interjected.

"It does make my mother's job a lot harder," Hawke admitted with a grin. Her face fell. "So, do I have any volunteers to beard the lion in his den with me?"

Anders shook his head. "Not I," he said. "We all know how the qunari feel about mages. And how I feel about chains."

"I shall come with you, Hawke," Fenris replied. "For what good it may do."

"I'll go, as well," Shepard said quietly. "I owe him that."

Varric snorted. "I don't see why you would owe him anything, Shepard. But I'm not going to leave the three of you to face the angry giant alone. I'll come, too."

Shepard frowned. "It's… I don't know, actually. I thought it was because we're both soldiers - commanders. But I didn't feel this way when you went to tell Aveline about her guard patrol, Hawke." She shrugged. "Maybe it was because you're friends? Maybe I felt you could break the news better than I could? I don't know."

She took a deep breath. "I suppose I feel responsible."

Hawke gaped at her. "Shepard, that's _ridiculous_. Those people were zealots - you saw them."

"I should have been able to stop them," Shepard muttered. "If I'd have had a pistol, I would have. And three soldiers would be alive now."

Varric shook his head. "I think you underestimate their resolve, Shepard. They weren't going to flee. Not with the Maker on their side," he added with a sardonic twist of his lips.

"Doesn't matter," Shepard shook her head. "With a pistol, I could have put them down before they had a chance to kill the delegates."

"Not even Bianca could fire that fast, Shepard," Varric scoffed.

"No," Shepard replied evenly. "But I could."

Varric gave the Spectre a thoughtful look. "Have I mentioned that you scare the piss out of me sometimes, Shepard?"

The guard on the gate to the compound gave the four of them a long look.

"Basra," he said slowly. "The Arishok expects you."

"That… doesn't sound good," Varric muttered.

"In the event we don't survive the next few minutes, I'd like to say it was a pleasure knowing you all," Hawke said solemnly.

There was an ominous undercurrent running through the compound as they made their way to the Arishok's bench. Many of the soldiers' expressions were considerably less coolly detached than usual.

The Arishok studied them for several long moments when they halted at the foot of his steps.

"So, you could not rescue my delegates but you killed those responsible," he said quietly. His eyes were sharp as razors. "How do you explain the condition of their bodies?"

Hawke straightened her shoulders and steeled herself. "A fanatic used them to incite others of his kind," she answered. "I am sorry."

The Arishok leaned his head back slightly, his eyes hooded. "I accept that," he said flatly.

Hawke blinked in surprise. Fenris and Varric exchanged looks.

"Well," said Hawke, under her breath, "that was easy."

But the Arishok was not finished. "I have seen every vice and weakness of your kind," he stated. "And how few of you take responsibility. Your Viscount remains a fool." He straightened on his bench. "But you are not. Panahedan, Hawke. I will keep one good thought about your kind."

Hawke inclined her head politely. "Thank you, Arishok. I am sorry again for the loss of your men."

They turned to go, but the Arishok halted them.

"Hawke."

She turned. "Yes?"

The Arishok's eyes were on Shepard. "I would speak with your companion."

"Shepard?"

"Yes."

Hawke shrugged. "That is her choice, not mine."

Shepard walked to the foot of the steps. "Yes, Arishok?"

The giant leaned forward, resting his elbows against his knees. "The sten showed signs of care. This was your doing, was it not?" he asked. As always, his piercing golden eyes watched her closely.

She nodded. "Yes. I am sorry I could not save him. That I could not save all of them."

"I… thank you for your efforts."

Shepard nodded shortly. "I know what it's like to lose men," she said simply. "It never gets easier."

"No."

She turned and walked back to the others. Once again, Hawke gave the Arishok a nod. He did not return it, but stared into the ground as they left.


	20. Chapter 19

**Chapter Nineteen**

It had been a week since the murder of the qunari delegates. Shepard had heard nothing from the Arishok in that time, nor had she made any attempt to make contact with him. The ball was firmly in his court. He would send for her, or he wouldn't. For now, there wasn't anything else to do.

The Arishok couldn't be her only line of inquiry. Advanced though the qunari were in comparison to the rest of Thedas, Shepard wasn't about to overlook any possibilities. She'd talked to all of Hawke's motley crew, but in particular to Sebastian and Isabela. Sebastian had grown up privileged, and had therefore received a distinctly better-than-average education by Theodosian standards. In addition, his time in the Chantry had given him access to a vastly larger library than all but the wealthiest or most scholarly of Thedas' populace.

Isabela was a sailor, and a good one. More than any of Hawke's other companions, she understood navigation and cartography - at least as it pertained to coastal and riverine areas.

"Navigational charts… star charts?" she'd said in surprise. "Why in Andraste's sweet arse would you be interested in those?"

Shepard had rolled her eyes. "Because I'm lost, Isabela," she'd replied.

Isabela had made a _pfft_ing noise. "Of course you're not lost. You're in the Hanged Man." She leaned closer. "With me."

Shepard had made a mental note to remember to talk to the pirate _before_ the latter started drinking in the future.

In the end, Isabela had admitted that, apart from the qunari, the most accurate navigational tools lay in the hands of the Felicisima Armada.

"But it's not as if they're just going to share that information, sweetness. They don't even share with each other. _Sharing_ isn't something they're big on."

Shepard had just smiled. "One thing at a time, Isabela," she'd said. "One thing at a time."

Sebastian had been a little more forthcoming with information.

"If you wish to learn of the lands and history of Thedas, you would do well to study the works of Brother Genitivi," he'd assured her. "He is the Chantry's foremost scholar, and truly one of the best of this, or any, age."

"Are his works difficult to find?" Shepard had asked, making a note of the scholar's name. "Would I be able to access them outside the Chantry, for example?"

Sebastian had given her a smile. "He is a popular writer, particularly among the upper classes. I should think you could find a complete copy of his travelogues in Hawke's library."

Shepard had nodded. "I know you won't appreciate this question, but I have to ask: how much influence has the Chantry had over his writings? Leaders of established regimes - religious or otherwise - often don't like information which runs counter to their philosophy."

The prince had taken the question quite calmly. "This is quite true," he'd agreed. "His writings have always struck me as extremely forthright, however. I am not sure where Genitivi was born, but he has traveled extensively throughout Thedas - even into qunari lands - and has long resided in Ferelden. Perhaps this has afforded him some measure of autonomy from the Divine." A frown had creased his face. "I have heard that after the Blight, Genitivi claimed to have found the resting place of Andraste's ashes, in Ferelden, but that the Divine denied the truth of his claim, so perhaps his immunity is at an end."

"I have to admit… I'm a little surprised to hear you say that," Shepard had said honestly. "In my experience, the devout are frequently blind to the shortcomings of their spiritual leaders."

He'd shaken his head, a trifle sadly. "The Maker may be infallible, but we who serve Him are not. As recent events have proven, not everything done in His name is truly His will."

He'd given her a shrewd look, then. "It is your past experience with faith that led you to abandon it entirely?"

The statement had thrown Shepard. In truth, she hadn't _had_ many personal experiences with faith. Her father hadn't been religious, and given the way her mother had abandoned them when Shepard was an infant, she suspected that faith hadn't figured largely in her mother's make up either. And the Reds largely believed in those things you could hold - weapons, money, possessions, and each other. Intangible beliefs were confined to things like respect, and pride, and loyalty.

She had simply shrugged. "Call me a cynic," she'd said. "I tend to see the worst where ideologies are concerned, and that includes religion. I suppose that's because people who simply go around doing good works in the name of faith tend to be quiet and humble about it. They don't have an agenda, so they don't need to advertise."

"Unfortunately true as well."

Shepard had squared her shoulders. "But I'm going to need more than just history and geography. I need everything I can find pertaining to the stars. Are there any Chantry scholars who have made a particular study of the heavens?"

With a rub of his chin, Sebastian had admitted defeat. "I do not know. It was not a subject I was ever given any instruction in, nor have I ever thought to look. I will check with the library's archivist, and let you know what I find."

**-ooo-**

"I thought I told you to keep the wound clean!"

Anders prodded the ugly, suppurating mess and shook his head.

Ferd gave a one-sided shrug. "Washed in the water butt every day, din't I?"

The healer's face paled. "One of the Lowtown water butts?"

"Where else? Ain't got water butts in Hightown."

Anders shook his head, his mouth set in a grim line. "This is badly infected, Ferd. Why didn't you come to see me in three days as I asked?"

The old man snorted. "Was busy, boy. Can't us all sit around all day."

"Without magic… if the infection has reached the bone, there will be little I can do to save the arm," Anders said quietly.

Ferd grimaced. "An' how will ye know the evil's in th' bone, then?"

"I will have to open it with a knife."

"I hope ye got some strong likker, boy."

"Or…" the healer's brow drew downward suddenly. "_Shepard_."

"Yer lady friend?"

"She's not actually my lady friend, but yes."

"Puts up wi' ye, don't she?"

"Serah Ferd," Anders said patiently, "there are any number of women in my life who put up with me, but who nevertheless do not fit the category of _lady friends_."

"Does this mean I don't count as your lady friend?" Hawke's voice was light and teasing from the doorway.

Anders raised an eyebrow. "Not unless I drank a lot more than I thought I did the other night."

Hawke put her hands on her hips. "You're saying that heavy drinking is required for you to contemplate the possibility of me being your lady friend?"

"No!" Anders said sharply. "That's not it at all." His face grew even more haggard for a moment, and his voice was strained. "Hawke, we've talked about this before…"

Hawke shook her head. "I know. Your… _chaperone_… doesn't approve."

Ferd was staring. "For a man wi'out a lady friend, boy, ye sure don't lack for fine looking women about. Ye prefer lads?"

Anders sighed. "It's not… look, does it really matter to you _why_ I don't pursue my female friends?"

"Ye got a point," said Ferd. "It don't." He looked Hawke up and down. "Don't suppose yer betrothed as yet, woman?"

"Ferd," said Anders plaintively, "you have bigger things to worry about right now."

The healer turned to Hawke. "Do you have any idea where Shepard's at?"

Hawke shrugged. "Last I knew, she was down at the Hanged Man talking to Varric about privies."

"Privies? Do I want to know?"

"She said it was time Kirkwall started thinking outside the bucket."

Anders made a face. "Believe me, in Darktown, most of the people think outside the bucket…"

"I don't think that's what she meant."

"Probably not." Anders turned hopeful eyes on Hawke.

"You're going to ask me to go get her, aren't you?" Hawke guessed from his expression.

"Would you? I think I can see a use for her… technology."

Hawke sighed. "Why can't anyone ever want me for my body?"

Ferd snorted. "Is that a trick question, woman?"

"For you, Ferd, yes," Anders answered firmly.

Hawke laughed. "I think he should send his betrothal portrait to mother, since she's so eager to see me married off."

"Don't encourage him."

**-ooo-**

"Look, I know I've read that tanners use just about every disgusting thing you can imagine," Shepard was arguing.

Varric nodded. "Where do you think half the buckets in Hightown go?"

"Okay, so this just makes it… neater. The waste is stored in an underground tank, and once a week or something, the tanners come by with a tank on a cart and a pump, and pump the underground tanks into the cart. If things were really fancy, you'd eventually have engineered sewers that drained down to the tanners' pits."

"And that's how things work where you're from?" Varric asked doubtfully.

"No. Our sewers go to recycling and treatment plants, where the water is extracted and the waste is turned into something useful."

"Why not do that, then?" the dwarf suggested. "If you're going to dream, dream big."

Shepard shook her head. "Listen, do you have any idea how hard it is for me to even figure out how to make a simple flush toilet work in this place? You don't have real sewers, you don't have a municipal water supply, and you think the latest word in waste elimination is a bucket with some pretty flowers painted on it. This _is_ dreaming big."

"And you really think this will catch on, do you?"

Shepard lifted an eyebrow. "Let me ask you this; if you had the choice between sitting on a nice porcelain seat to empty your bowels and then simply pulling a chain and having the mess just… disappear, or sitting on a couple of splintery planks over an open bucket that was last used by someone who tried the stew special, which would you pick?"

Varric gave her a long look. "I'll see what I can do."

"Remember - fifty percent until I find my way out of this hell hole. Then the whole thing reverts to House Tethras."

"I'm sure my ancestors will be proud, knowing that the Tethras name became synonymous with shit."

"Just ask the Crappers."

Varric gaped. "You're shitting me, right?"

"Nope."

"Still at it, I see?" Hawke sauntered in to Varric's suite.

"I thought you wanted to check in with Anders and see if he could come up with something to help with Sandal's bellyache."

"Yes, well, he was busy. There's a man in the clinic with an arm about to fall off or something, and he needs Shepard's help right away."

Shepard frowned. "My help? What does he need my help for?"

Hawke shrugged. "He said something about technology. Maybe he was just afraid that I would agree to marry to the old geezer just to spite my mother."

"Wait… is this an old fart that looks like someone hit him in the face with a small terrier? Shoulder wound?"

"Sounds about right," Hawke grinned. "Although wound is sort of a poor descriptor at the moment. Wreckage might be closer."

"What happened?" Shepard demanded. "Anders sewed him up!"

"Wound went bad," Hawke said simply. "_Very_ bad."

Shepard shook her head and pushed herself away from the table. "I don't know what Anders thinks I can do, but I'd better go. Poor Ferd."

"Don't forget… Wicked Grace tonight," the dwarf reminded her.

"Varric," Shepard grinned, "how could I possibly forget another chance to take your money?"

**-ooo-**

"Shepard! Thank the Maker."

"I came as soon as I could," Shepard said, crossing the clinic quickly.

One look was enough to confirm Hawke's assessment of Ferd's condition. Shepard's eyes sought out Anders'. "Tell me it's not as bad as it looks," she urged.

The healer shrugged. "I was hoping _you_ could tell _me_ that, actually."

Shepard blinked.

"You were able to tell me exactly where your arm was broken," Anders said hopefully. "Is there any way you could do the same for Ferd? Can your… _technology_… tell you how deep the infection goes? If it's yet reached the bone?"

_Of _course_. Don't just stand there like a dumbass, Shepard._

She managed a nod, and keyed up the omni-tool.

Ferd reared back. "Andraste's pyre, woman! Yer cursed with the magics too?"

Shepard smiled at him reassuringly. "Not a bit of it. You could do this too."

The old man's brows crinkled. "I ain't never lit me arm up with fire, an' I ain't never planning to."

Shepard paused a moment, dropping the 'tool into standby. "It's just a _thing_, Ferd. A tool. See?" She slipped it off her forearm and set it on a cot before the old man, powering it up again and stepping away.

She held both hands up. "Look. No hands," she grinned.

Ferd looked from the 'tool to Shepard and back again. "If that ain't the damnedest thing. Where in the Maker's name did ye find that?" His expression turned sly. "From them dwarfs, like as not, eh? Crafty little buggers."

Shepard shrugged and retrieved it. "They're common enough where I come from," she said evasively. "The important bit is that it can tell how bad your shoulder is, and that will help Anders figure out how to treat it properly."

"Will you allow Shepard to help you, Ferd?" Anders asked softly.

"Will it hurt?" Ferd asked curiously.

Shepard turned back to Anders. "There's a deep abscess, but it doesn't appear to involve the bone or the joint," she said, brushing her fingers over the interface.

"Shepard!" Anders exclaimed. "You can't just… _do things_ without asking permission first! It's not… it's just not something that a healer does!"

One dark eyebrow quirked at him, and Shepard gave him a crooked smile. "I'm not a healer," she said. "Besides, you'd heal someone if they were unconscious, right?"

Anders grumbled a moment before giving her a grudging assent. "Yes."

"But that's different," he added.

Shepard shrugged again. "I have no problem with knocking him out so you can do so."

Ferd scowled at her. "I'm right here, woman!"

She gave him a glance. "Why, so you are, Ferd."

"What?" Shepard said to the accusatory looks both men were still giving her. "I'm a _soldier_, boys. I get the job done, no matter what it takes."

She stepped closer to Anders, holding out her left hand, angled so that the healer could see the display. Ferd leaned in, too, staring wonderingly at the holographic representation of his shoulder when it appeared, the progress of the infection outlined in reds and purples.

"This is…" Anders breathed. "This is _amazing_."

"Does it help?" Shepard asked. "Will you be able to treat the infection?"

The healer reached out tentatively and moved Shepard's arm to a different angle. "I'll have to open it up, drain the pocket here," he put his finger into the holograph at a place where the image was shaded deep purple. "Then I'll pack the hole that's left after I've drained and flushed the abscess with a poultice, to draw out the rest of the poisons." He gave the old man a stern look. "But serah Ferd is going to have to stay in the clinic for a few days under my eye."

"What about systemic antibiotics?" Shepard asked. "Do you have those?"

Anders gave her a puzzled look. "I'm not sure. He'll get something to help ease the pain, and if his fever gets bad, I'll give him something to bring it down. Otherwise, probably just elfroot to help his body heal faster."

_No antimicrobials. No medi-gel. No computer-aided surgery, laser therapy, or basic diagnostics. Without magic, how do these people survive_?

Shepard had seen various members of Hawke's squad take serious wounds. Without Anders' healing in the group, the squad relied on various ointments and poultices to stabilize themselves long enough to get to the healer. Well, except for Fenris. Unless a wound was extremely serious - and Shepard had yet to see the elf inflicted with anything other than fairly minor injuries - Fenris claimed he preferred to let himself heal naturally. Given his past, Shepard could understand his reluctance, though if she was his commanding officer, he'd be in Anders' tender loving care so fast his pointy-eared head would spin.

_Then again, no antimicrobials means no resistant strains. Problems always keep pace with solutions._

Shepard shifted the view for Anders a few times, while the healer planned out his surgery. When he was satisfied with his mental preparations, Anders mixed a small amount of a milky fluid into a tot of Corff's whiskey, and handed it to Ferd.

"Drink up," he ordered.

Ferd gave the healer a suspicious look. "What be this?"

"It's a sleeping draught. It will be easier on both of us if you're not awake for this next part."

The old man's suspicion deepened. "Ye ain't plannin' on magickin' against me will, are ye?"

Anders shook his head. "That's Shepard's idea, not mine. It isn't ethical."

Ferd continued to give the healer a heavy glare.

"On my word as a healer, Ferd," Anders said softly. "All I intend to do is clean out the infection well and pack in some poultice. No healing magic."

The old man blew air out his lips noisily. "All right, boy." He sniffed at the little tankard. "Smells like th' Hanged Man," he said. "Never did like that whelp's whiskey. Ye can't ha' made it worse."

He downed the contents in a single shot. "I'fact, I think ye might ha' made it a bit better."

Anders took the tankard from him and began setting out some items on the big, heavy scrubbed table. Ferd began to nod off as the healer began mixing ingredients for the poultice.

"Help me get the old coot on the table before he falls over," Anders said to Shepard, catching Ferd by his shoulders as he started to tip forward.

"Potent stuff," Shepard remarked as Ferd began to snore.

Anders shrugged. "I much prefer to use a sleep spell when I can. It's not always possible, though."

"This is… probably going to get messy," Anders added. "You may not want to stay and watch."

Shepard lifted one shoulder slightly. "Battlefields aren't pretty either. Do you think you'll need my omni-tool again?"

The healer sounded confident. "I don't think so, no."

"Then I think I'll go down to the alienage and see if the seamstress is finished with my underwear yet."

"It's a good thing Ferd's already asleep," Anders grinned. "That comment probably would have earned you another proposal… or at least a proposition."

"What can I say? I've always been popular with the over eighty crowd."

Anders blinked at her. "Really?"

"No."

**-ooo-**

"Anethara, Shepard."

Shepard looked up from where she was happily examining the elven dressmaker's efforts. Merrill was just stepping out of the door to her apartment, all large liquid eyes and untidy hair.

"Hello, Merrill," Shepard replied.

"Oooh," replied the mage. "Are your smallclothes ready?"

Shepard was about to ask Merrill which of the terrible gossips she'd heard that from when she recalled that she had been in the process of ordering the underwear when she'd met Merrill.

"Yes," she answered.

The elf hurried to Shepard's side. "They're all black," she noted. "Why not blue? Or red? Red's nice."

Shepard coughed lightly. "Blood and dirt don't stain black," she said sheepishly.

Merrill blinked owlishly. "I never would have thought of that."

"I'm a soldier. I've been injured. A lot."

"Have you?" The elven mage tilted her head to one side, looking even more wren-like than usual. "One thing I've learned from being around Hawke is that I don't like getting pummeled."

"Can't say I like it, either," Shepard admitted. "But it comes with the job."

"And you took it anyway? That doesn't seem very smart."

Shepard laughed. "You follow Hawke around willingly enough, don't you?"

Merrill's expression wavered between sheepish and crestfallen. "I suppose that would mean I'm not very smart…"

Shepard nodded to the dressmaker, who'd just finished wrapping the underwear for her. "How long for the other items?" the Spectre asked, handing over some coins.

"I am afraid it will be twice as long, messere," the dressmaker apologized. "I have an order for a wedding gown I must finish first."

"I understand," Shepard smiled, and added a few additional coins as a tip. "Thank you for getting these done so quickly. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it." She scooped up the package and clutched it tightly to her chest, thinking just how nice it was going to be to have an extra layer of soft fabric between her tender bits and the world. While there were many wonderful things about her armored skinsuit, it really hadn't been engineered to be worn - despite the ironic phraseology - commando.

Shepard looked up at the vhenadahl as she turned away from the dressmaker's stall, staring at the dappled light dancing in the branches.

"Does it remind you of home?" Merrill asked, following her gaze.

Shepard shook her head. "No."

"Oh, that's right," Merrill remembered, "Isabela said your home was a ship, like the one she used to have."

"Not like she used to have, no," Shepard disagreed. "But a ship." She smiled again. "No trees on the Normandy. Hell, I couldn't even keep my fish alive."

Merrill gave her the confused kitten look that Isabela found so appealing. "You had pet fish?" she breathed. "Did they follow your ship everywhere you went? I mean, until they died, that is."

Shepard glanced at the elf and laughed. "No. They were in a tank in my quarters. Watching a tank full of fish is supposed to relieve stress. Except, in my case, I was always looking at sad little corpses floating at the top." She sighed. "I should have bought that stupid VI…"

"Oh. How… terrible."

Shepard returned her eyes to the light in the branches. "No," she repeated softly, "trees aren't something I'm particularly used to. Maybe that's why I like this one so much."

Her gaze traveled around the little courtyard. "It's too bad this place is so crowded," she murmured. "If there was a place open here, I'd rent it in a heartbeat."

Merrill gaped at her. "You mean live here? In the alienage?"

Shepard's lips twisted wryly. "I suppose I wouldn't exactly be welcome."

"Well… no," the elven mage admitted. "But I'm sure that once they got to know you, they'd like you!" she hastened to add. "And it would be nice to have a friend in the alienage."

Her smooth brow wrinkled in thought. "There's Arianni's place," Merrill suggested. "You could move in there."

Shepard snorted. "I doubt Arianni would appreciate that when she gets back from saying goodbye to her son."

The little braids in Merrill's dark hair flew as she shook her head. "Oh, no. Arianni has decided to stay with the clan. She won't be coming back to Kirkwall."

Shepard's eyes widened. "Really? In that case…" She straightened her shoulders. It was a gesture that the Normandy crew and her team were intimately familiar with. It meant that Shepard was locked in to a target; the mission parameters were set, and she was about to execute. Nothing would stand in her way. "Tell me where to find the landlord."

"Landlord?" Merrill gave her a puzzled look. "Oh… you mean like Corff, at the Hanged Man?"

"I suppose so…" Shepard said uncertainly.

Merrill giggled. "There's nobody like that here. People just find a space and move in."

"Even better," Shepard's face split in a broad grin. "I never did like rental applications."

Unconsciously, Shepard assumed a predatory stalk across the courtyard to the door that led into Arianni's building, Merrill following like a rambling puppy behind her.

The apartment was pretty much as Shepard remembered it, and still contained many of Arianni's things.

"Won't she want her stuff at some point?" Shepard questioned, running her eyes around the small space.

"Some things, perhaps, yes. Likely, whoever moved in here next would simply put her things in a crate and if Arianni came for them later, they'd be here." Merrill's eyes clouded a little. "For a little while, anyway. Then they'd probably sell them."

The space was only slightly bigger than the loft on the Normandy. It had a main sitting area, a small kitchen area, and a bedroom area with a small… bucket room… beyond.

_First flush toilet's going right there. If I have to beat the downstairs neighbors _and_ Varric to get it done._

"So," she said aloud, "what do I need to do to stake my claim? Just squat here?"

Merrill shrugged. "Just tell people you're moving in. I don't think anyone will argue with you. You're a human in armor. In the cities, my people tend to be just a bit… wary… of that."

Shepard looked chagrined. "I don't want people to think that I'm here to cause trouble. If this is going to be a big problem, let me know."

The elf shook her head. "Not a problem, as such. Just… well, maybe you could smile at people to begin with? You know, like you're happy?"

"I do understand the concept of smiling, Merrill."

"Oh, I know. I'm… Just don't scowl. You're frightening when you scowl," the mage babbled.

"You and Varric," Shepard complained. "I don't see how I'm any more intimidating than Hawke is. I mean, that woman is like a pair of razor blades in a tornado when she fights. She even claims that her favorite solution to a problem is to stab it."

"Yes, that's true," Merrill acknowledged. "But to be fair, she's usually _smiling_ when she stabs it."

**-ooo-**

"You're not wearing armor," Fenris blinked at Shepard in surprise.

A smile lifted the corners of her mouth. "Nope. I've been in armor for days on end now. I figured I'd be safe enough without it."

"The way you play?" Varric's brow lifted. "It's doubtful."

"Bring it, dwarf," Shepard retorted with a grin. "And I'll _really_ scare the piss out of you."

"Where's Blondie?" Varric asked, as Fenris poured a measure of wine into a tankard and handed it to Shepard.

"He's got to keep an eye on his patient," Shepard answered, sipping gingerly. "And you'll be pleased to know I've finally moved out of the clinic."

"I knew it was just a matter of time before this place grew on you," the dwarf said smugly.

"Actually, I moved into Arianni's old place in the alienage."

"No shit?"

"Yep."

"I don't understand the appeal," Fenris said doubtfully.

Varric shook his head. "Not everyone can squat in Hightown, Broody."

Fenris shrugged. "True, I suppose."

Isabela sauntered into Varric's suite, followed a bit too closely by Griffon. The pirate made a swatting motion at the big hound's muzzle. "You're lucky you're not one of my crew," she told the dog sternly. "I had very strict punishments for my men when they got too familiar."

The mabari tilted his head as if to say _who, me_?

"And don't try the innocent routine with me. I know you too well."

Griffon hung his head and whined softly.

"Nice try," Varric told him, "But I don't think that's going to work with this crowd. Merrill's not here tonight."

"All right," said Hawke as she came into the room, setting her hands on her hips. "Who's been hurting Griffon's feelings?"

Varric gave the dog a sour look. "I stand corrected," he said.

Griffon gave a happy bark and grinned at the dwarf, his tongue lolling out in a smug pant.

"Nobody likes a smartass," muttered Isabela.

**-ooo-**

"I'm out." Shepard tossed her cards down in disgust.

Varric stared at his cards a moment longer, and then tossed his down as well, sighing gustily. "I should have known, with Isabela dealing," he said sourly. "You still in, Broody?"

Fenris nodded, pushing a few silver coins into the pot.

"You're bluffing," laughed Isabela.

The elf remained cool and unruffled. "There's one way to find out. It will cost you three silver."

The pirate tipped her head and watched him with amusement. "You're on. Hawke?"

Hawke peered at her cards. She smirked. "Personally, I think you're both full of shit. Five to you, Griffon." She flicked the coins onto the pile.

Shepard looked down at the hound next to her, and picked up his cards for him. "What do you think, boy?"

Griffon whined and set his head on his paws.

"The mabari's out," Varric shook his head.

"Fenris?" Hawke asked, her green eyes wide and innocent.

"Five it is. And another three."

Isabela looked from one to the other of them. "Maker's balls…" She sighed, and tossed down her cards. "I'm going to regret this, I just know it."

The rogue and the elf stared at each other. Slowly, Hawke counted out three coins and set them deliberately at the edge of the pot.

"Well?" she said, expectantly.

"Ladies first."

Hawke grinned smugly and laid down her cards one at a time.

Varric whistled. "Shit, Hawke."

Shepard shook her head, her eyes on the elf's face. "Fenris has her."

"There's no way," Isabela declared.

"Broody?"

Silently, the elf set down his hand.

Hawke stared at the cards, mouth agape. "You have _got_ to be shitting me," she thumped the table with her fist.

"Told you." Shepard chuckled as Fenris swept his winnings toward him.

"Andraste's fiery snatch!" Hawke swore.

"Hawke!" The prince of Starkhaven's brogue was pained.

"Sebastian," said Hawke with surprise. "What are you doing here?"

The auburn eyebrows lifted. "Should I take that to mean I'm not welcome?"

"Of course not," said Hawke quickly. "It's just that you usually avoid our card nights."

The prince shrugged. "As I no longer drink or gamble, there would be little reason for me to frequent them."

"So why are you here?" Isabela asked sharply. "Have you suddenly remembered what fun was like?"

"_Isabela!_"

"_What?_"

"So, Choir Boy… am I dealing you in or not?" Varric inquired, gesturing with the deck slightly.

Sebastian smiled lightly. "No. Sister Genevieve and I just finished tending to a few of our elderly parishioners," he said, seating himself between Shepard and Griffon. "And I wanted to let Shepard know that the archivist says there's a small section in the library devoted to the study of the heavens."

Shepard gave him a pleased smile. "Excellent. Thanks, Sebastian."

"It was my pleasure," the prince replied.

"Since you are here, perhaps you could hold Griffon's cards for him?" Fenris asked quietly.

Sebastian looked down at the hound and rubbed one cropped ear fondly. "Of course."

"So… Shepard," said Varric as he shuffled the deck. "Why all the interest in the night sky?"

Shepard gave him a sly glance. "Because it's hard to see the stars in the daytime," she answered.

"Ha," Varric replied solemnly. "Really."

"She says she's lost," Isabela offered, draining her tankard. "She's looking for charts for navigation."

"Didn't you look at that map I gave you?" Hawke asked.

"I did," Shepard nodded. "It was a lovely map of Thedas."

"And utterly useless, I imagine," Fenris added.

"That too."

"How far away _is_ your land, Shepard?" Sebastian wondered curiously.

"I have no idea," Shepard answered. "Hence the star charts."

Sebastian frowned. "Did you really not know Thedas existed before you arrived here?"

"Not a clue."

"Your land must be far away indeed."

"Farther than you could believe," Fenris said.

Varric paused in dealing the cards. "Care to share with the group, Broody?"

"It is not my tale to share," the elf replied simply.

Shepard raised an eyebrow. "You didn't tell any of them?"

"No."

"Hmm." Shepard drummed her fingers against the table. "I don't think any of you are quite drunk enough to hear it yet."

Hawke gave her a curious look. "Why do you think we need to be drunk first?"

Shepard laughed shortly. "You wouldn't believe it otherwise."

"You may not even believe it then," Fenris added.

"Now I'm completely intrigued," Varric said, spinning the last card to the table and setting down the deck.

"Tell you what," Shepard offered. "You beat me, and I'll show you."

"You know he dealt, don't you?" Isabela reminded her.

"That was before he knew the stakes," Shepard replied, her eyes on the dwarf.

Varric smiled. "All right, Shepard. I beat your hand, you tell us all where you're from. Exactly." He looked at Fenris. "First bet's to Broody."

The elf wagered two silver. Isabela matched his bet. Hawke raised a silver, "To make it interesting." Griffon matched Hawke's bet and raised a well-chewed stuffed sheep.

Hawke blinked. "That confident, are you?"

Griffon simply gave her a look.

Shepard saw Hawke's bet and glanced at the sheep. "Anybody know what a stuffed animal goes for?"

"It's his pride and joy."

"To him it may be priceless, but I need to know how much I need to call."

"Ten silver," said Sebastian, suddenly.

"Ten?" Shepard said incredulously.

"Yes."

"But it's got a leg chewed off, see?"

"That, and the slobber, are the only reasons I didn't say twenty-five."

Shepard shot the prince a measuring look. He met it with one of guileless innocence.

"Oh, all right." She quickly stacked coins and set them in the center of the table. "There's ten, and another five." Her eyes traveled to Varric. "Eighteen to you, Manliness."

Varric put in twenty.

Fenris bought a card, and then folded.

"Hessarian's poxy arse!" Isabela threw down her cards and crossed her arms on her chest.

Hawke bought two cards, frowned, and stared hard at her hound. Griffon sat up and scratched his ear vigorously.

"Shit." She folded.

Griffon called.

Shepard stared at her cards for a long minute. She bought a card. She stared at her new hand.

With a shrug, she tossed in two extra coins. "You buying, or standing?"

Varric bought three cards.

Shepard laughed. "You were just trying to scare me off, weren't you?"

"Not entirely," he replied, setting down his hand. "Wyvern."

"Ha!" Shepard snorted. "Horseshoes, hand grenades, and orbital bombardment."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I have you beat." She set down her cards and started to reach forward, but was stopped by Sebastian's hand on her arm.

"I'm afraid your shot is just out of the black," he said, laying down Griffon's hand.

Shepard stared at the dog. "Your hindquarters didn't even _twitch_," she said to him. "Well played, Mister Griffon, well played."

"Woof," said Griffon.

"As for you," she flicked the prince's breastplate, "I'd call _that_ a deliberate suck out. _Ten silver_." She rolled her eyes. "He probably would have let it go at two. I should have known better than to trust a man who wears a chastity belt."

"Hawke's deal," Fenris noted, pushing the deck across to the rogue.

"The mabari saved your ass that time, Shepard," Varric noted.

"The dog didn't save anyone's ass, shorty. I had you beat fair and square."

"Shorty?"

"I hear big talk, but I haven't seen shit to back it up," Shepard purred.

"Should I even bother with everyone else?" Hawke asked, shuffling.

"What do you say, Shepard?" Varric asked lazily.

"You sure you're not _afraid_ to go heads up against me?" Shepard's voice was low and husky.

"Mmmm," said Isabela appreciatively. "_I'm _not."

Sebastian cleared his throat nervously. "Maker. She is still talking about cards, isn't she?"

"Shepard is," Fenris clarified. "Isabela… isn't."

"But… she doesn't look like she's talking about cards…" Sebastian swallowed and looked away from where Shepard was staring intently at the dwarf, her lips curved in a predatory smile.

"She's bluffing," said Varric, off-handedly. "Deal, Hawke."

Shepard laughed and settled back in her chair. "Keep thinking that, dwarf. I play to win."

"Wait," said Hawke, frowning as she dealt out two hands. "_Are_ we still talking about Wicked Grace?"

"Of course," Varric assured the rogue. "From what we've seen, I don't think I'm her type, Hawke."

He raised an eyebrow at the Spectre. "What do you say, Shepard? Double or nothing?"

"Meaning?" Shepard leaned forward to pour herself more wine. "You want a panty ante game?"

"A what?" Varric's broad forehead creased.

"Panty ante," Shepard repeated. "You know… strip poker. Or Diamondback. Whatever."

"Strip… you mean the players actually take off their clothes?" Isabela looked intrigued. "How is it I've never heard of this?"

"To buy in to the game, you have to ante up your panties… er… smallclothes. There are variations on the theme, but Normandy rules state that each player must bet an article of clothing. Weapons, omni-tools, and jewelry aren't accepted as bets."

"It certainly gives new meaning to the name _Wicked_ Grace," Sebastian murmured, flushing slightly. "Although, admittedly, I probably would have been quite the fan of those rules at one point in my life."

Varric shook his head. "That… wasn't what I had in mind, no."

"So?" Shepard gestured with her tankard. "What _did_ you have in mind?"

The dwarf fixed her with a speculative look. "You lose, you not only tell us where exactly you're from, but you explain the things the desire demon showed you."

"What?"

"When we were in the Fade, chasing after that elven kid," Varric clarified. "The desire demon tried to offer you… things. Presumably things that you wanted. Well," he gave a shrug, "none of it made any sense to us, and my curiosity has been plaguing me ever since."

Shepard's forehead wrinkled. "Why didn't you ask before?"

"Never seemed like the right time. We were generally talking about privies."

"What leads you to believe that it'll make any more sense after I've tried to explain it?" Shepard demanded.

Varric smiled. "I don't."

A sudden and altogether evil smile slowly crept over Shepard's features. "All right," she announced. "You've got a deal. BUT…" her eyes narrowed slightly, "if I win, you tell me why you named your crossbow Bianca."

Varric's eyes narrowed as well. There was a long moment of eye wrestling. Then the dwarf grinned lazily.

"Sounds fair."

"Good," Shepard scooped up her cards.

"One round to buy cards, then we both show our hands," Varric said, and retrieved his cards more slowly.

Shepard nodded, her eyes on her draw.

"Exciting," Isabela breathed to Hawke. "Either way, we win."

Shepard bought a card. So did Varric.

Shepard laid hers down. "Perfect run."

Varric smiled. "Broody's lucky hand. Four serpents."

"Shit!" Shepard thumped the table. She eyed Hawke suspiciously. "This was a set up, wasn't it?"

Hawke blinked innocently. "How could you say such a thing?"

"I've seen how you two work, that's how."

"I'm hurt," said Varric. "And you're a poor loser."

"Of course I am. I don't lose very often."

"Enjoy the novelty, then," Varric suggested. "And let me have Edwina get us another round."

"You'll need more than one," Shepard warned. "Because I don't want to hear the words _that's impossible_ out of any of you. Got me?"

"You really believe that your friends are so close minded?" Sebastian asked gently.

It was Fenris who answered for her. "Yes."

Shepard raised a hand eloquently.

"If you agree to listen to this, you will have your understanding of what is and isn't possible tested. If you aren't comfortable with that, I suggest you leave now," Shepard continued. "I'm not going to be responsible for any crises of faith or existence."

Her eyes traveled around the table. "I can guarantee that you won't always understand what I'm trying to tell you. It's not something I'm doing to piss you off, or to be deliberately patronizing, or as an attempt to confuse or misdirect. Things really are just that different where I come from."

Edwina brought two pitchers of ale, and another two bottles of wine.

"Shit, Shepard," Varric told her as the waitress left, "you make it sound mystical and life-altering."

She snorted. "Hardly mystical. Possibly life-altering."

"Well, come on," Isabela urged.

"Everybody sure they want to stay for this?"

Hawke rolled her eyes. "No more stalling, Shepard!"

Shepard took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

"I was born in a very large city called Los Angeles, in a land called California, on the continent known as North America, on the planet known to its inhabitants as Earth. Earth is the third planet from the sun of our system, which is called Sol."

As she spoke, she brought up a holographic representation of the Sol system on her omni-tool.

"This is the Sol system," she said softly. "And this is Earth," she indicated the globe hovering between the orbits of Venus and Mars."

The holograph zoomed in, and a projection of Earth hovered over Shepard's arm, turning lazily.

"I was on a weapon circling Earth when it… fired. When I woke up, I was here on Thedas."

She switched the view to a 2-D global map of Earth. "Although I wouldn't call geography my strong suit, I know all the lands on Earth," she continued, running her fingers over the map. "Thedas is not one of them."

Shepard looked around the table to see if this had sunk in. "What's more, I know each of the planets in the Sol system. Thedas cannot be located on any one of them."

"I am _lost_," she said vehemently. "I could be anywhere in the galaxy. Any one of the stars you see in the sky could be Sol. I have no idea which."

An edge of panic dragged its way across Shepard's thoughts. _Shit. I was trying so hard not to think about just how fucking difficult this situation is._

She cleared her throat, and took a generous sip of wine. "Earth is a technologically advanced planet. Far more technologically advanced than the whole of Thedas. In comparison, Thedas is somewhere between five hundred and a thousand years behind Earth - that is, some of the cultures on Earth were technologically similar to Thedas over five hundred years ago. Not exactly, of course - I don't know if it's even possible for two different cultures to progress in exactly the same fashion, even if they are similar in many ways - but roughly speaking."

"But…" Sebastian whispered.

"Try some wine. It will help," offered Fenris.

Shepard gulped wine again. "We - that is, the people of Earth - became space-faring over two hundred years ago. To our moon first, and later to Mars, and then the outer planets of our system."

"Wait," said Varric. "You're saying that… shit, I don't know what you're saying."

Shepard looked at him sympathetically. "I _did_ warn you."

She sighed. "Let's start again. This," she brought up a picture of LA, taken a few years before she enlisted, "is the city I was born in."

The megatropolis of Los Angeles cut the sky in the photo. It was sleek, and glassy, and it glittered like a fever dream.

"The population is… _was_… just under thirty-three million people."*****

She zoomed out, to a dayside satellite photo of California, brown and green and gleaming silver. "This is California," she said. "It's on the large side of medium for a state of the United North American States."

"And this is the United North American States," she zoomed out again. "Practically the whole bloody continent."

Another zoom. "Earth. Eleven and a half billion people, before the Reapers came."

The little blue globe twinkled as it spun in the image, serene and peaceful. Shepard didn't want to remember what it had looked like from the bridge of the Normandy in the hours prior to Hammer's final assault.

"You're saying that Thedas is like… what? Your United North Whatever States?" Hawke asked, staring avidly at the omni-tool's projection.

"In structure, yes. I'm assuming that Thedas is one of the major continents on this world." She shrugged. "It's only a best guess."

"So, then, our world would look something like that, too, wouldn't it? If you were up high enough in the sky?"

"Again, yes, I'm assuming it would be similar. Maybe not as much water. Maybe more. Who knows?"

"How… is that even… who painted that? And where could it have been painted from?" Sebastian whispered.

Shepard smiled. "It's a photo, not a painting. An actual moment in time, captured electronically." She keyed up a recent file addition. "See? Look familiar?"

It was the same room Sebastian was sitting in, but from the reverse angle. Where Shepard was now sitting Anders stood, upper body bare, head turned so that he could look over his left shoulder. In one corner, Varric could be seen, his forehead resting against his palm.

"You… were able to save that?" Hawke choked. "Maker, Justice is going to _kill_ Anders." She squinted at Shepard. "Or maybe just you."

"Oh, it gets better," Shepard assured her. "This is actually vid. Er… moving pictures. Watch."

The image of Anders wiggled its bottom from side to side playfully.

"You did not!" Isabela shrieked. "I want one!"

"Shepard, you have blackmail material forever," Varric approved. He frowned. "But remind me never to get drunk in your presence."

"That… actually happened?" Sebastian asked. "Here, in Varric's suite?"

"Yep. A week ago or so."

"So, you made this… or I should say those images? The ones you showed us before?"

"The one of the city, yeah," Shepard told him. "The others, no. All but the last one were GPS photos - from a…" she paused, frowning, as she tried to explain, "…a machine that circles the Earth and lets people know where they are."

"The last one," Shepard brought the image up again and tilted her head. "Hmmm… not taken from Luna - that's our moon - but from high earth orbit. Look," she pointed to one edge of the blue globe, "you can just see Luna right there, shadowed by the planet."

She thought for a moment. "That would mean it was probably taken more than thirty-five thousand kilometers above the planet. Or… umm… twenty-four - no, twenty-two - thousand miles."

Sebastian's jaw dropped. "That's…"

"Don't say it," Shepard warned.

"But…"

"Wine, Sebastian," Fenris said flatly, handing him a tankard. "Trust me."

Hawke suddenly pointed a finger at Varric, who wore a slightly glazed expression. "And you said _my_ idea was daft! Makes a lot more sense than this does, doesn't it?"

The dwarf shook his head, and quickly drained his tankard, refilling both his and Hawke's mugs from the pitcher.

"Shepard was right about one thing," he muttered. "I am in no way drunk enough for this."

Shepard smiled faintly as she searched for other images. "This is one of the first space-going vehicles. It's destination was Luna - the moon. The people on board were the first humans to set foot off the planet."

Shepard looked fondly at the image of the Apollo 11 rocket in its launch tower. "It was terribly crude, and I have no idea how they actually managed to get it to work," she said. "But they did. And never looked back."

She paused for a moment, struck dumb by a sudden lump in her throat that took a considerable amount of wine to ease.

"This… this is the Normandy. SSV Normandy SR-2. My ship. My home."

"That's your ship?" Isabela gasped. "She's not meant for the water at all!"

Shepard shook her head. "No." She drained the last of her wine, and refilled her tankard.

She gestured to the others at the table. "Drink up. You'll really need it for the next bit."

"Why?" Varric asked suspiciously. "Is there really something stranger than all this?"

Shepard's lips lifted, although the result was not exactly a smile. "You did say you wanted an explanation for what the demon offered me, didn't you?"

"Oh," Varric mumbled. "That." He finished the remainder of his tankard, and once again refilled it. "Hawke?"

Hawke was sitting with her elbow propped on the table and her chin in her hand. She appeared fascinated. "What?" she asked. Varric waved the pitcher, and she shook her head slightly. "No. I'm good."

"Suit yourself."

"Ready?" Shepard asked the group.

Sebastian held up a hand for a moment, and emptied the tankard Fenris had poured him. "Perhaps another?" he gasped, grimacing at the tannins in the wine.

Fenris smiled at him, and took up the bottle to pour him a second.

The prince gave Shepard a tight nod. "Go ahead."

Shepard paged through some photos, looking for the one she wanted. "We eventually found that we - humans, that is - weren't the only space-faring species in the galaxy. Although we got of to something of a rocky start with the galactic community, we eventually took our place with other species in the Council, which is… was… the galactic governing body."

The photo she wanted had been taken more than a month ago, in the Normandy's lounge. "My crew," she said. "And some of my old team."

"Vega, Cortez, Traynor, Daniels, Donnelly," she recited. "Adams, Chakwas." She took a breath. "Joker. Me."

That was it for the human contingent. "Mordin Solus. Urdnot Wrex. Liara T'soni. EDI." Her voice broke. "Garrus Vakarian."

"Garrus?" said Isabela in surprise. "That's the real Garrus?"

Shepard's eyes burned, but what tears there were had fallen the night she'd mourned with Fenris. "Yes," she said shortly.

"Your best friend, you said," Isabela continued, staring.

"Yes," it was a hoarse whisper. Shepard reached for her tankard. A tiny bit of wine caught in the corner of her mouth as she pulled greedily at the liquid inside.

"Maker's cock and balls," was Isabela's final words on the subject.

"Mordin is… _was_ a salarian. Wrex is a krogan, Liara an asari. And Garrus is turian," Shepard tried to keep her voice level and matter of fact, deliberately choosing to use the present tense for those she'd last seen alive.

Varric frowned. "You were right, Hawke. A _parade_ of kossith wouldn't make an impression on these people."

"Kossith?" Shepard asked curiously.

"The qunari ox-men," Hawke replied.

Varric was staring intently at the picture. "But I don't see what's his name."

"Thane," Hawke supplied.

Shepard quickly banished the image, her hands falling to her lap for a moment. "Thane was on the Citadel when that picture was taken," she said quietly. "He… he was terminally ill, and required daily medical treatment."

Fenris caught up the second wine bottle, removed the cork, and topped up Shepard's tankard.

She gave him a grateful smile. "Thanks." Slowly, she raised the wine to her lips and sipped silently.

The others watched her in various attitudes of puzzlement.

After a moment, Shepard put down the tankard and keyed up the omni-tool again, searching for the picture she wanted. It was one she'd looked at for hours in her cell in Vancouver. Not the one she'd had on her desk in the loft up until the time she'd turned the Normandy over to the Alliance - that one showed the two of them together, taken in the VIP lounge at Afterlife, of all places, by a surreptitiously lurking Tali. (Shepard had complained bitterly at the time, and then secretly asked the quarian to send her a copy.) She tried not to look at that photo at all any more. It hurt too much.

_This_ picture was just so quintessentially _Thane_, save for the fact he was wearing only a pair of form-hugging pants and not his leather and armor. In the image, he was standing in a relaxed parade rest, every line of his body speaking of deadly grace momentarily stilled. There was a faint smile curving his perfect lips, but his dark eyes were inscrutable, mysterious.

_Assassin. Friend. Lover._

Shepard clenched her teeth, and tried to steady her arm and voice.

"Thane Krios," she said. "A drell assassin. Also one of my former team. And my lover." _For way too short a time._

Sebastian choked on his wine. "That was your… You and he… Maker preserve me!"

"An assassin?" said Isabela with interest. She leaned forward to get a better view. "Exotic," she murmured. "But I think I can see the appeal."

"You would, Rivaini," Varric said dryly.

Hawke leaned forward as well. "Those eyes just swallow you, don't they?" she commented.

"Mmm. It's those lips."

"The lips go without saying."

"And that taut stomach… that little bit of hipbone you can see peeking out of his waistband…" Isabela nodded. "Yes, I can definitely see the appeal."

She gave Shepard a speculative look. "What about…"

"Isabela!" snapped Sebastian.

Hawke also gave Shepard a look. "Was it…"

"Hawke!"

"I still think he looks like what you'd get if you fucked a dragon," Varric stated. "But clearly in a good way," he added, as two pair of green eyes and one pair of amber all glared at him.

Shepard dismissed the photo and reached for her wine again. "Thane was killed by another assassin," she said quietly, pleased that her voice only wavered slightly. "He… survived the initial attack, but his body was too far depleted by his illness to recover."

_I love you. If all else whispers back into the tide, know this for fact._

Thane's last words to her, received after his death, echoed in her head.

Shepard ran a hand through her hair. "I loved him more than I've ever loved another person." She laughed hollowly. "Never considered myself a xenophile, but I suppose it's hard to get around the fact that my best friend and my lover were both from alien species."

She stared into nothing. "I never believed much of anything, but Thane's people had a belief that they would be reunited with their loved ones after death. It's the only religious or spiritual thing I've ever truly wanted to believe."

_I will await you across the sea._

"Anyway," Shepard shook herself and fixed her eyes on Varric. "You wanted it, you got it."

"And the scenes of… war, destruction?" Hawke asked, before Varric could respond. "Was that something like the Blight?"

"Worse," Shepard said flatly. "This Blight of yours was stopped before it could pass the borders of a single country. The Reaper invasion covered the entire galaxy. Not just Earth, but the homeworlds of almost all the Council species were hit hard. I think Sur'kesh - the salarian homeworld - probably got off the lightest. The rest were just… devastated."

"The goal of the Reapers was to harvest all advanced organic life, everywhere in the galaxy. They'd been doing this every fifty thousand years for god knows how long." Her eyes glinted fiercely. "But we stopped them."

"What you saw was the final attack by ground forces. The last thing I saw of my homeworld." Shepard dredged up a picture - a street near the Thames, with the old Parliment buildings and Big Ben in the background. "It was a city called London. This is what it looked like before the Reapers." Her mouth twisted grimly. "You saw what it looked like afterward."

Shepard downed the remainder of her wine.

"What happened?" Hawke asked quietly. "You said you stopped them?"

"I destroyed them. Destroyed them all, and every bit of Reaper technology along with them. At least," she added conscientiously, "I think I did."

"You?" said Varric, incredulously. "By yourself?"

"I triggered the weapon that would destroy them. The weapon itself was built by teams of scientists from all races, using plans that had been passed down from cycle to cycle. The people of the last Reaper cycle - fifty thousand years ago - were called the Protheans, and they nearly managed to finish the weapon's design before they were wiped out."

"Ships from every fleet in the galaxy helped to get the weapon to Earth to be deployed. Soldiers from every armed force landed on Earth and helped make the final assault that got us - me - to the weapon. My team, my crew…"

"So, no, I didn't do it alone. I was just the only one left to pull the damn trigger, that's all."

"You were the only one left?" Hawke whispered, aghast.

"Only two of us made it to the weapon itself, that I know of. Anderson - a friend, a mentor, and a damn fine soldier - and I got that far. But there was a… traitor, an agent of the Reapers… waiting for us. Anderson wasn't in good shape to begin with - hell, neither of us were - but he took a lot of damage in that fight. I'm pretty sure he… didn't make it," Shepard's voice thickened.

_I'm proud of you, Shepard._

"He lost consciousness before I triggered the weapon. He may have been dead even then. I don't know."

Shepard rubbed the back of her neck. "There was red fire, and then nothing. And I woke up here, in Darktown, on a cot in Anders' clinic.

_Am I on Earth?_

_No. You're on a cot. Although I admit, the earth may be cleaner…_

"But what the blazes is a Reaper?" Isabela demanded.

"Reapers are sentient synthetic-organic constructs. Machines, essentially," Shepard brought up a holographic image. "This one called itself Harbinger." Her lips curled back from her teeth. "I would have loved to kill that bastard face to face," she growled. "But I didn't get a chance to face it until the final push, and by then all I could think about was sending them all to hell. Each and every one of them."

"For scale, this is a human," she added, adding a second image.

"Where?" Hawke asked.

"There. That little speck."

"Andraste's asschecks, that's huge," Varric breathed.

"Yes. And hard to kill."

"How many of these are we talking?"

Shepard shrugged. "I don't know. Thousands? Enough to destroy all advanced life across a galaxy, anyway."

"And, just for clarification," Sebastian said slowly, "Thedas is somehow part of this galaxy?"

"I certainly hope so," Shepard said fervently.

"Then I suppose we owe you our lives," the prince of Starkhaven said solemnly.

"Possibly, I guess. Although it's also possible that you would have been left alone, for the next cycle."

"Perhaps our great-great-great-great… etc… grandchildren's lives, then," said Hawke lightly. "Provided of course, that we have some. In this group, that's hardly a certainty."

"And you do not know the fate of your world… of your friends… now?"

Shepard shook her head mutely.

Sebastian laid one hand on her shoulder gently. "I am sorry. That must be… difficult."

"Difficult doesn't begin to cover it," she replied shortly. "But thanks."

Varric tilted his head. "You really weren't kidding about your body count, were you?"

Shepard took a deep breath and let it out in a weary sigh. "Manliness, you have no idea. I've even destroyed an entire star system."

"Remind me again never to piss you off."

* * *

_A/N: This... rambled. I blame the damn cognitive neurophysiology paper I've been working on for the past several days. I'm not a psychiatrist OR a neurobiologist, for heaven's sake. Why do I do these things to myself?_

_Also, pain. Pain is not my friend. It is not even my I'll-pretend-to-like-you-to-your-face-while-I-talk-shit-behind-your-back faux friend. It's a dirty little bitch I'd like to choke. And no, not in the titillating way. Nosir._

_Still, here it is. I'm actually a trifle unsettled about posting it, because I'm not really at a place where I can tell if it works or not. See above. _

_If it really doesn't work at all, let me know and I'll try to rework it later, after I've had A) sleep and B) a blissful lack of lit review, sometime in late August. Also, for preference, with a complete and utter lack of _ow_._

_It feels like the story's a little stalled, but I know where the next chapter's supposed to go and..._

_...shit..._

_...now I'm rambling here, too. Bloody snotbuckets._

_I'm... I'm going to go now._

_*Totally made up figure. O_o _

_Figured that if the population of the Earth just about doubled between now and 2183, the population of the greater LA metro area could also just about double. Dry benching. Somebody take away my scientist badge, pls._


	21. Chapter 20

_Homage. _

_Because._

* * *

**Chapter Twenty**

Shepard looked up from the book when she heard her name, her eyes scanning the dim area just beyond the pool of lamplight bathing the polished shelves around her.

She was in the Chantry library, where she'd been every day for the past three days. She'd developed a rather amazing headache that refused to abate, even with Anders' help, and her nose burned perpetually from something in the air. Dust mites, soot and incense, probably. And page after page of small, cramped, crabbed script…

Shepard was about to concede that her mind was playing tricks on her when the unfamiliar voice called again.

"Serah Shepard?"

Shepard closed the book with a leathery _fwap_ sound. "Yes?"

A dim figure moved through the shadows outside the circle of light. Shepard expected it to belong to one of the Chantry brothers who periodically came to check on her.

She was wrong.

The figure was male, as she'd supposed from the voice, but it was not wearing the robes of the Chantry. He was human, with dark hair and dusky skin, and he bore a scar from the hairline just above his left temple to the line of his jaw, crossing over the edge of his left cheekbone. Shepard found the average Theodosian defied her attempts to determine age, but she guessed that the man was somewhat older than she was, perhaps nearer forty than thirty. His bearing was calm and assured.

_No armor. No weapons. Could still be a threat_.

It was background thinking, unconscious and unbidden. Shepard knew that she did it, and one part of her hated herself for it while the rest of her simply accepted it as a matter of course. Kirrahe had put it well, hadn't he? _Our motto in STG is to always expect trouble. Failing that, to create trouble for someone else…_

"Can I help you?" Shepard pushed back her chair and rose, trying not to wince as her joints popped from the long period of inactivity.

"Indeed you can," said the man. His voice held an accent Shepard couldn't place. "The Arishok wishes to speak with you, please."

Shepard's eyes narrowed. "Aren't you a little short for a qunari?"

The man's dark eyebrows lifted. "I did not realize there was a height requirement."

"And you said _please_. Qunari don't say please. They say _now._"

A faint smile lifted the corners of his wide mouth. "The antaam can be abrupt at times."

"Antaam?"

"The body of the qun. In common, you would say… _army_, perhaps."

Shepard folded her arms on her chest and rocked her weight to one heel. "Mind telling me who you _really_ are?"

"Asa," the man responded simply.

"Yes. Helpful," Shepard said curtly. "Would that be _the_ Asa, _an_ Asa, or just plain _Asa_?"

"Yes." The edges of the man's eyes crinkled.

"Well, if you're _not_ qunari, you've certainly gotten their infuriating lack of clarity down pat."

That won a fleeting smile from the man. "We do it deliberately."

Shepard snorted. "I'd gathered."

"I am Asa," the man continued. "You would call me a… healer, I suppose."

"So asa isn't really your name, any more than ashaad was the archer's name…" Shepard was more musing aloud than expecting an answer.

"True." The man tipped his head slightly. "Asa is who I _am_, not a meaningless string of syllables attached to my person."

"Must be difficult when there's more than one healer about," Shepard said shrewdly. "I won't even go into the difficulties posed by having several hundred infantry soldiers in the same place at the same time."

The man shrugged. "There are distinctions," he said. "Will you come?"

"The Arishok actually asked politely!" Shepard exclaimed. "Of course I'll come." She glanced down at the too-short breeches and tunic she wore - Hawke's castoffs - and hesitated. "I'll need to make a stop first, though."

"As you wish," Asa said.

Shepard rolled her shoulders. "You don't have to accompany me, you know. If you want, you can return and let the Arishok know I've agreed to meet with him."

"I was tasked with fetching you," Asa replied. "I will be expected to return with you."

Shepard's green eyes glinted as she moved past the qunari healer. "I see. So the _please_ was a figure of speech. _Your_ figure of speech, not the Arishok's."

Asa fell into place just behind her right shoulder. "A figure of speech, yes, but it was indeed his." The healer's eyes were a startling hazel, ringed with a green even deeper than Shepard's own. "You have made an impression, serah Shepard."

Shepard snorted again. "You know, you're the only qunari to use my name, meaningless string of syllables though it may be."

"I know. Among the antaam, you seem to have become known as _the_ basra. You are a frequent topic of conversation - even more so than your friend serah Hawke."

"I suppose I should be flattered?"

"Yes," Asa agreed mildly. "It is not often that a bas merits such attention."

"You know, you people have a knack for being marginally offensive _all the time_." Shepard pulled at the heavy, ornate Chantry doors. "Most people only manage to flirt with it."

"There is little purpose in wasting time on those who would be willfully blind." Shepard could sense the shrug that went with the healer's words.

"I agree fully," she said pointedly. "And blindness comes in so many forms," she shot a glance over her shoulder. "For example, those who reject change because that's simply not how things are done."

"You really know very little about us," Asa said calmly. "Perhaps you should save your judgments until after your own eyes have been opened."

Shepard felt her hands bunch into fists._ Argh. Fucking qunari!_

She tried to bury her irritation, and sighed theatrically. "You know, I thought at first that this was a step forward. A polite request, an acknowledgment of my name, the courtesy to allow me to make myself presentable first… Now I see that nothing really has changed."

To her surprise, Asa chuckled. "More has changed than you know."

"If I asked you for an explanation, would you just give me some enigmatic bullshit answer?"

Asa seemed to consider this for a moment. "Probably, yes."

"I won't bother then."

**-ooo-**

Shepard crossed the floor of her apartment, making for the bedroom and the locked chest in which she kept Garrus and her armor. Isabela and Hawke had been the ones to select the chest, and the locks and various traps that Shepard now felt she needed to keep the equipment safe. Varric paid to keep Anders' clinic safe. Nobody was paying to keep Shepard's apartment safe.

She unlocked the chest and disarmed the traps, and began peeling off her tunic and breeches. She doubted there was any reason for modesty in front of the qunari healer.

"So, if it's not terribly offensive for me to keep harping on it, you don't appear to be kossith," she said, stepping one foot into her skinsuit.

"What gave it away?" Asa appeared to have a greater respect for privacy than the giants, and remained out in the small sitting room.

"The lack of horns and the fact that you're not even two meters tall, maybe?"

She heard the man's chuckle from the other room. "Not all kossith have horns, you know."

Shepard paused in pulling the armored underlayer over her shoulders. "Really? Are they all still gigantic, though?"

"Oh yes. That goes without saying." Again, Shepard could hear faint amusement in the other's voice.

"Given you're not kossith, were you converted by the sword, or by persuasion?" God, it was nice to have underwear between her and the skinsuit. She carefully zipped herself in, and began the tedious chore of assembling her hardsuit.

"I prefer to think it was thoughtful logic."

"And did thoughtful logic give you that scar?" Shepard grunted as she fastened the clamps between her chest and back plate.

"Bandits, three days' travel out of Kont-Aar," the healer acknowledged. "A qunari patrol found me, unconscious and bleeding heavily. Luckily, it was shortly after they found the bandits, so they had a pretty good idea what had happened."

"I suppose someone with healing magic rates pretty high on the, _can we keep him?_ scale, even for qunari."

"I am _Asa_, not _Saarebas_," Asa said stiffly.

_Oops. That hit a nerve._

"Okay," said Shepard, carefully. "The difference being?"

"I do not need to be collared."

Shepard slipped her feet into her boots and latched them. "What do you mean, _collared_?"

"I do not need to be chained to keep me from harming myself or others."

_Oh. _This_ again. Good to see that intolerance is universal. _

"You don't use magic to heal?" she asked aloud.

Asa's voice still held an affronted tone. "I use medicine."

"Better than the _medicine_ in Kirkwall, I hope?"

"Yes."

Shepard adjusted her greaves and pulled on her gloves, refastening her omni-tool in place. She stooped to retrieve Garrus from his nest in the chest, and swung the rifle over her shoulder, feeling it click into place.

Asa gave her a thoughtful look when she emerged from the bedroom. "Are your people blind to the threat of saarebas? Do your kind not chain them as well?"

"Where I come from, the people who have similar talents as your… saarebas are no different than anyone else. Some ignorant people fear them and are therefore intolerant of them, but things are improving."

"They are free?" The qunari healer looked shocked. "What of corruption?"

Shepard shrugged. "Where I come from, everyone's got the same potential to be an evil bastard. It isn't limited to biotics. Crazy's crazy."

"That's a foolish outlook," Asa frowned.

"Well, in almost two hundred years of study, we still haven't managed to isolate the evil bastard gene. Until we do, I'd rather just assume that we're all the same until proven otherwise."

"You would endanger the whole by assuming that all are equally harmless?" Asa demanded.

Shepard shook her head with a wry smile. "No. I just assume _everyone's_ an evil bastard." She tilted her head. "Saves time."

The healer gaped at her.

Shepard jerked her head toward the door. "Come on. I wouldn't want to keep the Arishok waiting any longer than necessary."

**-ooo-**

Asa was silent for the rest of the journey to the dockside compound. Shepard supposed she'd been a bit rude, but _come on_, what would it take for these jackasses to see that locking people up because they were different was wrong?

_Hundreds of years of struggle and war, usually._

Sometimes Shepard hated that she was a realist.

The Arishok was waiting for her in his library tent. Asa showed her only as far as the tent flap before excusing himself with a distracted air.

_Damn. You probably shouldn't have alienated the one person you might have been able to pump for information about the kossith. Good move, Shepard._

The Arishok did not look up from a scroll he was studying as she entered.

"Basra," he intoned.

"Arishok."

"You have retreated within the Chantry's walls," the Arishok noted. "Why?"

Shepard strove not to show her surprise openly. "I've been studying in their library," she replied. "Why do you ask?"

His eyes left the scroll. "You seek certainty in the bas' Chant of Light?"

"No." Shepard's eyes were hard. "In star charts and the studies their scholars have made of the heavens."

He grunted and set the scroll aside, motioning for her to take her place opposite him.

"You once claimed you wished to learn of us, of the qun," he made an eloquent gesture with one hand. "Do you still?"

Shepard took her seat and propped her elbows on the table, lacing her fingers together tightly. She studied the giant over the top of them. "You are more highly advanced than the other races of Thedas," she said firmly. "I want… no, I _need_ to know how _much_ more. I will listen to anything you have to tell me."

She dropped her hands. "However, I should warn you right now that if you're thinking of trying to convert me to your philosophy, you're barking up the wrong tree."

He raised an eyebrow. "Barking up a tree?"

Shepard shrugged. "A figure of speech."

"Meaning?" the Arishok asked sharply.

"I'm not much of a believer. I don't do religion, or philosophy, or spirituality. I believe in the gun in my hand and not a lot else."

"_Belief_ in the qun is not required," he rumbled. "_Asit tal-eb_. It is to be."

Shepard's brow furrowed. "It is to be what?"

"Existence is a choice. You may accept it, or deny it."

She cocked her head. "To be, or not to be: that is the question," she murmured.

"Yes." The Arishok mirrored her expression. "You speak this as if it is known wisdom."

"They're the words of a playwright, William Shakespeare. The play is called Hamlet."

"He speaks a truth," the Arishok said approvingly.

Shepard snorted inelegantly. "Hamlet was talking about _suicide_ - about taking his own life - rather than just manning up and growing a pair!" She dropped her hand to her omni-tool and skimmed through files until she found the one she was after.

_"To be, or not to be: that is the question_," she quoted softly.

_"whether tis nobler in the mind to suffer_

_the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune_

_or to take arms against a sea of troubles;_

_and by opposing, end them?_

_To die: to sleep;_

_no more, and by sleep to say we end_

_the heartache and the thousand natural shocks_

_that flesh is heir to…"_

She let the file wink out. "That's not wisdom. That's _giving up_. You don't just roll over because life isn't all rainbows and sunshine." Her eyes blazed. "You fight. You fight until the day you die! And, if you're me, then I guess you get up and fight some more."

"I've _wanted_ to give up. I've had the fight beat out of me so many times; been dead, or almost dead, or mostly dead, or somewhat dead so many times, and you know what? I _can't_. To be or not to be _isn't_ the question. _You are_. No question at all."

The Arishok was watching her calmly as she ranted. When she finished, he spoke.

"You do not understand, basra," he said. "There is no struggle, but the struggle of self. There is no mastery, but the mastery of self. _Suffering is a choice, and we can refuse it_."

With that, he held out one hand to her, as if in entreaty.

Shepard stared at it in confusion. "What?"

"Your arm."

"What about it?"

"I wish to see it."

Puzzled, Shepard held out her right arm.

The Arishok gave her a look that very clearly stated _the other one, dumbass_.

Hesitantly, Shepard extended her left arm.

The Arishok ran his fingers over the length of her armored forearm from elbow to wrist, and then over her hand to her fingertips. When he repeated the motion a second time, his fingers lingered on the omni-tool.

"It is an enchantment of some kind?"

Shepard shook her head, only belatedly realizing that the Arishok's attention was wholly fixed on her arm. She cleared her throat.

"No. It's a device. A machine."

The Arishok glanced up at her and turned one hand palm up, opening his fingers. The request was obvious.

Shepard met his eyes and held them for a long, long minute. Without breaking that contact, she slowly unfastened the 'tool and placed it in the giant's palm.

Her hands clenched into fists as his fingers closed over it.

The Arishok looked down at the 'tool, turning it over and over in his hands. His gently questing talons found the standby button, and the 'tool sprang to life.

Shepard half expected him to drop it, but the Arishok regarded it curiously. He seemed only mildly puzzled when he attempted to touch the holographic interface and his fingers passed through it.

"It responds to your touch alone?" he asked.

"Sort of," she hazarded. "The interface isn't keyed _specifically_ to me." Shepard held up a hand and wiggled her fingers. "It responds to my gloves, because they have something embedded in the fingertips. It responds to my fingertips because I have something embedded in those as well. It's a common practice for people who use them routinely." She fought the urge to snatch the 'tool out of his grasp. "Here, though, I don't think anyone else could use it."

"It is… interesting." He returned the 'tool and regarded her intently as she replaced it on her wrist.

"This was not done lightly," he acknowledged.

Shepard's mind was too full of relief at the omni-tool's return to follow the Arishok's line of thought. "What?"

"You did not entrust _it_," he nodded to the 'tool, "lightly. I… thank you for allowing it."

"Without this," Shepard said quietly, unconsciously moving her left arm closer to her body, "there is no chance for me to get home." She paused. "There's not much chance anyway, but there's a world of difference between _slim_ and _none_."

Those golden eyes continued to study her.

"And yet you allowed it out of your possession. Why?"

Shepard's eyes were frank. "Because, as a wise man once reminded me, life is a negotiation. To get, you have to give."

Without a word, the Arishok rose and strode to one of the bookshelves. His fingers removed a slim volume, and he returned to his seat, setting the book before her.

"You will be allowed to pass the gates, basra. If it is convenient, you will have access to some of the tomes here," he gestured with one hand, "under supervision."

He placed his elbows on the table and leaned forward. "In return, you will answer my questions and respond to my summons _without complaint_."

Shepard's gaze was steely. "I will answer your questions and respond to your summons… _within reason_," she amended firmly.

The ghost of a smile tugged at the giant's lips. "Agreed. Within reason."

"This book contains the Cantos of the Qun, translated into your tongue. You will read it."

Despite occasional evidence to the contrary, Shepard was not oblivious to subtext. There was something special about the book, and not just because it held the tenets of his philosophy.

"Your personal copy?" she asked softly.

The massive head nodded slightly. "Yes."

Shepard picked it up carefully. "Thank you," she said sincerely.

The Arishok sat back and squared his shoulders. The motion was a dismissal, and Shepard knew it. She rose, holding the slender book protectively against her body.

"Panehedan, basra."

Shepard gave him a little nod. "Panehedan, Arishok."

**-ooo-**

"I really need to learn how to cook," Shepard complained, pushing at the unknown chunks in her bowl of stew with a wooden spoon. She looked up at Isabela. "How do you and Varric manage?"

Isabela smiled at her. "I get most of what I need out of a bottle, sweetness. I pick up the rest at food stalls in the bazaar."

Shepard grunted. "Where is Varric?"

The pirate shrugged. "He was out with Hawke earlier." She leaned her elbows on the bar and gave Shepard a slow, thoughtful look.

"What?" Shepard asked, spoon halfway to her mouth. "Did I spill all over myself?" She glanced down at her chest self-consciously.

"All those things you told us the other night…" Isabela said slyly. "How much of it was actually _true_?"

"All of it." Shepard tried not to think about the texture of the unidentified lumps as she put the spoon in her mouth and chewed resolutely.

"Come on," the pirate wheedled. "You can tell me…"

Shepard forced herself to swallow the half-chewed mouthful. "All of it," she repeated.

"So, then, how did you get here?" Isabela demanded. "You said there's no magic where you come from."

Shepard shook her head and pushed the bowl of stew aside. "I don't know. My guess is that the amount of dark energy released by the Crucible… the weapon… triggered the Citadel relay, and somehow, I ended up here."

She frowned. "Although, that would assume that there was another relay around here somewhere. Certainly somewhere in Thedas, and likely somewhere near Kirkwall."

Shepard idly tapped the spoon against the lip of the bowl. "Hmmm…" she hummed.

"I didn't understand a word of that," Isabela complained.

"What?" Shepard snapped out of her reverie. "Oh. Think of it this way: a relay is kind of like… riding a wave. It's a way of moving you from one place to another without all the tedious effort."

Isabela gave her a skeptical look.

"Look, I can't really explain it any better than that," Shepard argued. "Otherwise, I'm going to have to use words like mass effect field and faster than light travel and relativity, and you're going to give me that same look only a hell of a lot more intensely."

"And now you're thinking really hard," Isabela pointed out, suspiciously. "That _can't_ be good."

"Actually, it might be very good indeed," Shepard replied. "If only Liara were here…"

"It doesn't _look_ very good. You have that look that Hawke gets when she's about to do something just a little bit crazy." The pirate folded her arms sternly. "Trust me. I've been following that silly fool for years now. I know."

"Who's the more foolish; the fool, or the fool who follows her?" Shepard asked loftily.

"Is there profit involved somewhere?"

"Oh, just look at the pretty picture," Shepard said sourly, bringing up a picture of Jacob working out without his shirt on, courtesy of Kasumi.

"Oooh," Isabela brightened considerably. "Is this one of your crewmen?"

"One of my old team. Jacob Taylor." Shepard didn't bother to add that the man in question was soon to become a father. _Hopefully_ soon to become a father.

"He looks like he could be part Rivaini," Isabela said thoughtfully.

"I thought you might appreciate him. He was a corsair for a while - kind of like a pirate, only secretly under the control of the Alliance military."

"Did the two of you ever…"

Shepard gave the pirate a stern look. "I didn't make it a _habit_ to sleep with my squad," she said.

"Neither did I, but I have to admit that with yours it would be awfully tempting."

Shepard grinned. "You'll love this, then," she tapped quickly on the omni-tool, explaining as she went.

"After the incident in which I destroyed a relay - unfortunately destroying most of a star system as well - the Alliance grounded me and I was put in protective custody."

She held out her arm again. "This was my personal guard."

It was a vid she'd taken for Tali, after the latter had expressed admiration for the size of Vega's biceps. Though the lieutenant was not bare-chested, his tatty old Alliance tee left absolutely nothing to the imagination, except perhaps the extent of the blackwork tattoo that began just under his right ear, as he did reverse pull-ups at his workbench in the Normandy's shuttle bay.

Isabela's amber eyes narrowed in appreciation. "Your _personal_ guard?"

"Hand picked and expressly assigned to keep an eye on me." Shepard chuckled richly. "Sometimes I think Vega was Anderson's way of trying to make up for the fact I was confined to a maximum security detention block for nearly six months."

"There you are!"

Shepard turned her head to see Hawke crossing the floor with Varric and Anders in tow.

"Who, me? Or Isabela?"

Hawke put her hands on her hips. "You, of course. I always know where to find Isabela."

"Hey!" Isabela protested. "I'm not _always_ at the Hanged Man."

"Yes," agreed Hawke mildly. "Sometimes you're at the Rose."

"Exactly."

Shepard put her back to the bar and leaned against it. "So what's up?"

"It's not my fault," said Varric quickly.

Hawke gave him a brief glare, and turned back to Shepard, her face thoughtful.

"See? There it is," said Isabela. "That's the look."

"The look?" Shepard arched her brows.

"The one that means Hawke's about to do something crazy."

Anders sighed. "We're going into the Deep Roads again."

Shepard's forehead wrinkled. "Where?"

"Endless underground passages filled with darkspawn and all sorts of nasty creatures," the healer groaned. "I hate the Deep Roads. I left the Wardens so that I never had to go into the Deep Roads ever again, and this is going to be twice you've dragged me down there, Hawke."

Hawke tilted her head to one side. "I thought it was because they made you give up your cat?"

"That too," the healer sulked. "Poor Ser Pounce-a-lot."

"You named your cat Sir Pounce-a-lot?" Shepard asked in disbelief.

"What's wrong with Ser Pounce-a-lot?" Anders demanded.

Shepard shook her head. "Nothing. If you're under ten years old."

"Hey!"

The Spectre sighed, and turned back to Hawke. "Let me guess. You want me to go with you into these -quote- _endless underground passages filled with all sorts of nasty creatures_," she surmised.

Hawke gave her a bright smile. "It'll be an exciting adventure. You'll enjoy it."

**-ooo-**

"_Why_ did you think I'd enjoy this little adventure again?" Shepard asked sourly as the four of them broke camp on their fifth day underground. The extended amount of time with thousands of tons of rock pressing down on them and dangers around every corner had put them all on edge.

"Because you like shooting things in the head?" Hawke suggested sweetly.

"I shoot things in the head because they need to die."

"Tell me you don't enjoy it."

"Maybe a little," Shepard conceded. "But that's still not a good enough reason for all this," she waved a hand vaguely.

Hawke sighed. "If I'd have known you were going to complain the whole time, I would have brought Fenris instead."

"Ladies," said Varric calmly, "much as the thought of the two of you ripping each other's clothes off is one of everyone's personal fantasies, could it wait until we're back in the Hanged Man and I have a pint of ale in my hand?"

"Shut up, Varric," said Anders wearily.

"Fine, Blondie. Don't come crying to me after the girls kill each other and we're left down here all by ourselves."

"Not by ourselves," Anders replied grimly. "Darkspawn coming."

It was not the first time that the former Grey Warden's ability had come in handy. Shepard cloaked and sprinted into flanking cover, sliding over a chunk of ruined masonry and dropping behind it as the first wave of the monsters appeared.

She took aim on the center of a hurlock - or was it a genlock? - forehead, let her breath ease from her lungs, and tightened her finger against Garrus' trigger. The creature dropped. Shepard lined up another shot, and swore under her breath. There were just too many of the damn things, and they were overrunning the squad's position. She popped out of cover long enough to fire an incendiary blast into a group of four who were threatening to overwhelm Hawke, cloaked again, and dashed around the darkspawns' left flank.

Shepard waded into the fray, wielding her omni-blade with as much precision as a scalpel. She couldn't afford wild, powerful swings, not when there were so damn many of them. For the second time in as many days, she wished that Fenris had accompanied them on this mission. The elf's massive great sword would really come in handy about now.

"Hawke," Shepard shouted, "position!"

She'd spent some time teaching the others standard clock positions, as well as the hand signals she commonly used when working in comm silence.

"On your four!" came the reply.

"Fall back," Shepard ordered.

"Are you su…"

"Fall back, Hawke!"

Shepard counted to three in her head, and dropped a ball of burning plasma practically at her own feet, pivoting and making a leaping dive out of the way as it detonated.

The blast rebounded on her shields, taking them down to two percent and scorching her backplate slightly.

The smell of burning darkspawn flesh filled the passage.

"Everyone okay?" Anders asked, coughing.

"I got a little nicked, I think," said Hawke off-handedly. Shepard saw bright blood staining the ground where the rogue stood, and rushed to Hawke's side just in time to catch the other woman as she swayed on her feet.

Hawke's right side was gashed open - Shepard thought she could see the faint whiteness of the rogue's lower ribs as the wound gaped with each movement. Anders rummaged in his pouch for a moment and withdrew a large bottle, uncorking it with his teeth and liberally dousing the wound with it. Hawke hissed loudly and began to swear.

Anders handed the bottle and cork off to Shepard, and his hands lit with the familiar aura of magic.

Shepard assayed a sniff at the mouth of the bottle and blenched as the smell assaulted her nose and sinuses like a blowtorch shoved up her nostrils. "What is this stuff?" she asked.

"One of the few good things I got out of being a Warden," Anders muttered. "It's a potion that helps neutralize dawkspawn blood."

The rend in Hawke's side knitted up under his fingers. "It can't remove the taint once it's in a person's blood, but pouring it over an open wound helps remove any trace of darkspawn blood that might contaminate it."

"Burns like anything, though," Hawke said from between clenched teeth.

"Better a little burning now than succumbing to the taint later," the healer replied tersely.

"You can't argue with that logic," Varric commented.

"How much further?" Shepard sighed. "Please tell me we're getting close."

Varric nodded. "We are. Should make it in a few hours."

"Good. Do you really think the dwarves are still alive?"

Anders shook his head. "They'd have to be really lucky. There are a lot more darkspawn here now than there were when we were here a few years ago." He retrieved his bottle from Shepard and replaced it in his pack.

The darkspawn reminded Shepard a little too much of the Reaper ground forces - grotesque warpings of humans and dwarves - except that they, at least, were entirely organic. And toxic.

"Their blood carries the taint. Come into too much contact with it, and the taint will seep into your blood. Once that happens, there is little that can be done," Anders had told her. "Some say that the Joining - becoming a Grey Warden - is a cure, but it's not. It's only a postponement of the inevitable."

Again, the similarities to indoctrination made Shepard shudder. But the darkspawn weren't the same level of threat the Reapers had been. Until something called an Archdemon came about, triggering a Blight, the darkspawn remained underground. Quick thinking and decisive action had been enough to halt a Blight before it could ravage more than a single country - unlike the Reapers, who easily decimated entire worlds. And conventional weapons were more than a match for the darkspawn. Shepard figured that, had the Theodosians possessed assault rifles and standard artillery units, Blights would practically be a thing of the past.

However, being stuck underground _without_ assault rifles _or_ standard artillery, vastly outnumbered by the twisted monsters, Shepard had to concede that the darkspawn were fourth in line behind Reapers, giant spiders, and rachni on the list of enemies she never wanted to fight again, just ahead of Phantom-class Cerberus troops and thresher maws.

A little over two hours later, the four of them passed the outer boundaries of the primeval thaig. As they entered a narrow corridor, more natural stone than worked masonry, Shepard gasped. Thick crystalline rivers of sparkling blue stone poured from the roof of the passage to the floor, bathing the whole area in glacial blue light.

"Holy shit," she whispered, pausing in the center of the passageway and turning slowly through 360 degrees. "It's… it's beautiful." Enraptured, she moved closer to one of the veins of stone, reaching out to touch it.

Anders' hand captured her wrist firmly. "Don't. Touch," he warned quietly.

Shepard shot him a puzzled frown over her shoulder. "Why? Is it radioactive?" She dropped her hand to her omni-tool, scanning the glowing, pale blue rock.

"It's lyrium," he answered. "And it does very bad things to humans."

Shepard had heard Hawke and her companions - particularly the mages - talk about lyrium before. But Shepard had always assumed the substance to be a drug - something compounded, not a naturally occurring mineral.

"But don't mages use lyrium?" she protested, glancing down at her omni-tool as its orange glow flickered through the scan.

"Yes. _Refined_ lyrium," Anders replied. "The refining process is complex, and renders lyrium safe for handling. The ore itself is… can be… fatal."

"Hmmm," Shepard hummed thoughtfully.

"We should move quickly through here," Anders added meaningfully. "This much lyrium can have an effect, even without any of us coming into direct contact with it."

They had no sooner emerged from the far side of the passageway than Hawke's squad caught sight of a figure at the foot of a heavy, iron bound door. The dwarf was on his knees, head bowed, fists clenched and pressed tightly against his thighs. It was an attitude of utter despair.

At the scuff of a boot against stone, the dwarf looked up wildly. In an instant, his face passed from frightened to deliriously hopeful.

"Are you one of Yevhen's sons?"

"Messere Hawke?!" he gasped. "Please help me! My brother Merin - Iwan locked him in with the darkspawn." His face twitched with anger. "He sealed the door, left me here, and bolted for that passage." The dwarf threw his left hand out savagely. "He's gone mad. All he cares about is that damned sword."

Hawke glanced back at Varric. "Last time we were here, we picked this place clean," she said, frowning. "What's your brother looking for?"

"Iwan called it the Heartdrinker. He says it's the masterwork of an ancient smith from this thaig." The dwarf's hands clutched at each other. "He bought a book from one of the Orzammar caravans. It had the location of the sword - or at least to the golems who guard it."

Hawke sighed theatrically. "Another greedy dwarf," she said wryly. "You think he took lessons from Bartrand?"

The dwarf's pale grey eyes were anguished. "Maybe I should have seen this coming," he said bitterly. "Iwan has been obsessed with that thing. He wouldn't tell us about the sword, but I never imagined he'd leave us to rot."

"This is getting just a little too familiar, isn't it?" Varric said.

Well, Hawke," Anders asked, cocking his head to one side. "Which will it be? Merin, or the sword?"

"I don't care about the sword," the dwarf begged. "Please, save my brother!"

"Get back to the surface," Hawke ordered. "It looks like I have a date with the darkspawn."

"He's on the other side of that wall," the dwarf pointed over his shoulder. "You need to find a way to reach him."

"_Please_," he repeated softly. "Come tell my father when you have news."

With a long look back over his shoulder at the sealed doorway, the dwarf made his way back down the passageway they'd just come from.

Shepard ran a quick ladar scan with her omni-tool. "Behind that rubble on the left looks to be a corridor that runs parallel to this one," she said. "We might be able to find a connecting doorway or room somewhere further along."

Hawke nodded, and picked her way through what appeared to be a partial cave in of the corridor's roof. Shortly beyond the rubble, the passage became once again smoothly worked stone.

"Let's hope the rest doesn't decide to come down," Anders muttered sourly, glancing up at the squared off blocks of the ceiling.

They followed the corridor for maybe fifty meters before it opened out into a rectangular room. From a ruined opening in one wall came the sound of steel on steel, and the wordless growls and howls of darkspawn.

Hawke broke into a sprint.

Merin was a tough little bastard, Shepard gave the dwarf credit. Back to a wall, the dwarf was holding off a half-dozen darkspawn, but it was clear he was near exhaustion. All it would take was a moment's lapse…

She hurled an incendiary blast at the back of the group, setting two of the monsters alight and rather effectively drawing the attention of the others. A bolt of sparkling energy burst from Anders' staff as the mage leveled it at the darkspawn, freezing one of the monsters completely solid. Hawke took advantage of the creature's immobile fragility and leapt, bringing the hilts of both daggers down on its chest, shattering it.

Calmly, Varric picked off the two flaming darkspawn. "Shepard, Hawke, to the left!" he called, pausing to slot an explosive bolt in place.

Shepard groaned. Varric was proving to be oddly resistant to using clock positions.

Hawke, who had pivoted to lash out at another darkspawn with her heel, called back, "Mine, or yours?"

"Just duck!"

The rogue grinned and rolled away as Varric set Bianca to his shoulder and fired. The explosive bolt took the emissary just entering through a doorway in the back of the room squarely in the chest. It looked down at the shaft just as the bolt erupted in fire. To be sure, Shepard flung a blast into the inferno, scooping up a buckler dropped by one of the darkspawn and using it to bash a large hurlock in the face, burying her omni-blade into his abdomen.

Behind the scorched remains of the emissary, another group of darkspawn were pushing their way through the open doorway. Taking advantage of the chokepoint, Varric sent shot after shot into the creatures, stopping only when Hawke swept in with her daggers to finish them off.

After the last of the monsters had fallen to Hawke's blades, Anders moved to the exhausted dwarf's side, checking him for injuries.

"You're one lucky dwarf," the healer said, when Merin proved to have little more than shallow wounds. As he had done with Hawke, Anders bathed the wounds in the caustic-smelling potion, and closed them with magic.

"I know you're exhausted," Hawke told the dwarf, who sagged against the wall, "but if you can push yourself just a little further, you should be able to catch up to your brother Emrys. He's on his way back to the surface."

"Iwan?" The name dropped from the young dwarf's weary lips like lead.

"Your brother said he bolted further into the thaig. We'll go after him next."

Merin nodded, and pushed himself off the wall. "Try to bring him back safely," he said. With an obvious effort of will, the dwarf marshalled what little strength remained, and set off at a shuffling trot.

"His brother abandons him to the darkspawn and he still worries about us bringing him back safely?" Anders wondered aloud.

"Maybe he wants to throttle Iwan slowly himself," Varric offered. "I know _I _wanted to wrap _my_ hands around Bartrand's neck."

"You people make me glad I was an only child," Shepard announced, as Hawke began picking the lock on a chest in the corner.

"Shouldn't we try to pick up the spare?" the Spectre added after a moment.

"What, Iwan?" Hawke asked, grinning to herself as the lock popped open. "We'll catch up with him soon enough. Sooner, if the darkspawn have anything to say about it."

She withdrew a leather bag and a few miscellaneous items that she tucked away into a belt pouch. A small vial she held up to the light, then unstoppered. "Lyrium," she murmured, tossing it across the room to Anders, who caught it neatly. Deftly, the rogue picked open the knots holding the bag closed, and tipped its contents into her palm. Colored fire glinted in her palm as several large, uncut gemstones tumbled out.

Varric picked one up and snorted. "Why can't people leave behind the good ones?" He selected another, holding it up and squinting at it. "These are all cloudy or blemished."

"Ahh," he murmured, snatching up a third. "Except this one…" He took it closer to the torchlight and examined it closely. "This one should be worth something." He handed it to Hawke, who nestled it into a pocket before tipping the stones back into the bag.

"Wait," said Shepard, as a thought occurred to her. "Are those sapphires?"

"Some," admitted Varric. "A few rubies, and a diamond as well."

Shepard held out her hand. "Would you mind?"

Hawke and Varric exchanged glances. "They're not worth much," Varric warned, as Hawke shrugged and tossed Shepard the pouch.

"To me, they're worth quite a bit," Shepard said smugly. "I hadn't thought about it before, but I should be able to use them to repair my armor."

Anders tapped her shoulder guard lightly. "This is made out of gemstones?" he said with disbelief.

Shepard shook her head. "But aluminum oxide makes a decent ceramic."

"Alu-what?" Anders' forehead wrinkled.

"Corundum," she clarified. "Rubies and sapphires."

"If you say so," Anders said doubtfully.

"And the best part is, the corundum doesn't have to be gemstone quality. I just need the mineral itself, to use as raw material for the repairs. My omni-tool should be able to do the rest."

Shepard tucked the pouch away.

Anders put his head on one side. "Why do I have the sudden feeling that there's going to be a rash of gemstone robberies across Kirkwall?"

"I can neither confirm nor deny your question at this time," Shepard replied, face going wooden.

"Let's go," Hawke motioned to the ruined passageway with a jerk of her head. "Iwan shouldn't have gotten too far ahead of us."

**-ooo-**

He hadn't.

The dwarf's corpse was only a few passages away from where he'd callously left his younger brother to die at the hands of the darkspawn. That Merin had survived that fate while Iwan had not was… darkly ironic, in a way that made Shepard's mouth quirk slightly. Not in humor, exactly - bastard though he undoubtably was, not even Iwan deserved to be ripped open the way the conniving young dwarf had been - but in what Shepard had to admit was an _appreciation_ of the universe's perverse nature.

"Is that a golem control rod in his hand?" Varric asked.

Shepard hunkered down beside Hawke, who was already sorting through the dwarf's pockets. "Looks like a limestone dildo to me," she muttered.

"Dildo?" Hawke raised an eyebrow at her.

"Don't ask. It was a tasteless comment," Shepard sighed.

Hawke looked from the Spectre's face to the object still clutched in the dwarf's outflung hand. She tilted her head to one side, and a grin suddenly infused her face. "Ahhh," the rogue said, nodding sagely. "I suppose we should be thankful Isabela isn't here."

"Why is that?" Anders asked innocently. His eyes followed Hawke's, and he suddenly flushed to his hairline. "Oh."

And if the universe's aforementioned perversion was ever called into question, the fact that there were four people clustered around a mangled corpse, currently only interested in the fact that said corpse was holding a vaguely phallus-shaped object, seemed proof positive.

Varric was the one to break the oddly fraught moment, stooping slightly to pull the thing from Iwan's cold hand.

"What?" he said irritably, as the other three gave him slightly bemused looks. "Rivaini isn't here, and I'm not going to oblige with any suggestive comments. It's bad enough that my imagination has already supplied them."

With that, he dropped the rod into a pocket of his leather coat and glanced at Hawke. "I'm assuming you want to continue and try to find this sword that was worth betraying his kin for?"

Hawke nodded. "We might as well continue a little farther. I don't know that I want to stay down here until we find it, mind you," she added. "But given what we found last time… a little farther couldn't hurt."

"Famous last words," said Anders sardonically.

They climbed a flight of steps, negotiated a short landing and a further set of steps, and Varric snorted with unamused laughter.

"So close. Fate's a real bitch sometimes," he said.

Poised at the top of the final flight of steps was a huge, hulking… thing of stone. It was human-shaped only in the very basest of senses - the thing had a head and shoulders, and arms with hands and legs with feet - but it was crude and clumsy.

A line of similar statues stood at attention along the wall - perhaps four or five of them.

Hawke shot Anders a wickedly amused glance.

"Not a word," said the healer shortly. He pointed a finger at Varric. "That goes for you, too."

"Wouldn't dream of it, Blondie," smiled Varric.

"I'm missing something," Shepard concluded, watching the exchange.

"And thank the Maker for that," Anders avowed. "If you haven't yet been subjected to Isabela's friend fiction, I strongly suggest you keep it that way."

Shepard shrugged and eyed the statue before them. "Golems?" she deduced.

"Exactly," Varric nodded, withdrawing the stone dildo and handing it over to Hawke. "Give it a try."

Hawke looked down at the thing in her hands, clearly torn between all the jokes clamoring for attention and seriousness.

To Shepard's surprise, seriousness won out.

"How am I supposed to know how an ancient dwarven device works?" Hawke demanded. She waved the stone phallus at Shepard and Anders threateningly. "And not a word out of either of you," she growled.

"You think all dwarves are born with the knowledge or something?" Varric protested. "Your guess is as good as mine."

Giving the three of them a dark scowl, Hawke proceeded to the first statue and poked at it with the rod.

Anders stepped forward gingerly, holding up both hands placatingly when Hawke rounded on him, rod at the ready. Almost apologetically, he placed his hand over hers, the faintest of auras limning his fingers.

The rod suddenly lit with an answering glow.

"Well, put me in a dress and call me the Divine…" Varric wondered softly. "Andraste's knickers, Blondie. How did you know that would work?"

"I didn't," the healer admitted. "But dormant enchantments can sometimes be activated that way."

"Huh."

A network of fine blue lines began to light up on the statue before Hawke, and the thing moved with the grinding sound of stone on stone. Shepard felt the flagstones beneath her boots tremble as the golem's massive feet thudded against them.

_That thing's got to be a couple thousand kilos, easy._

Curiously, she stepped around the golem, sweeping her left hand along the thing's broad chest, closely examining the areas of articulation, looking for seams or other evidence of its construction.

Shepard glanced down at the data on her omni-tool, and frowned.

_That _can't _be right. How the hell do you animate solid stone?_

The golem stood quietly now, in the attitude of someone awaiting further instruction. Hesitantly, Shepard reached out with one hand and ran her fingers over the golem's elbow, searching for something - anything, really - to reveal the trick. For trick there had to be; there was no way Shepard was going to accept that solid rock had just flexed - stiffly, granted - and stretched the way flesh would have.

Her fingers and eyes told her the same thing as her omni-tool. Though there were small fissures here and there in the stone, the golem was a single, solid piece of igneous rock, shot throughout with small veins of what Shepard now knew to be lyrium.

"_Fuck_," she whispered, in something strangely akin to awe.

"What?" Hawke asked. She was holding a hand up in front of the golem's roughly carved face, waving it slowly back and forth. The golem's head turned slightly in order to follow the movement.

"This is _un_believable," Shepard stated flatly. "How the _fuck _does it move?"

Hawke shrugged. "Magic, presumably. Who knows?"

"Legend… or history, if you listen to the dwarves back in Orzammar… says that the Paragon Carridan discovered the secret to making the golems," Varric told them. "For…shit, I don't know… a thousand years or some nonsense, the dwarves claim that an army of golems kept them safe from the darkspawn."

"And?" asked Hawke, now bouncing up and down on her toes while the golem continued to follow her movements.

"And what?"

"What happened?"

Varric shrugged. "I don't know. Paragon Carridan disappeared, and his thaig was lost, presumably along with the secret of how to make golems. The ones that already existed are scattered, along with the rods used to control them," he gestured at the stone in Hawke's grasp.

Hawke grinned cheerfully. "Mother will be so delighted when I bring this home," she chuckled. "But I'm afraid I'll have to keep the control rod locked tightly away from Sandal. Otherwise, I can just imagine the complaints from the neighbors."

Anders laughed. "What, you don't think the nobles in Hightown would find it entertaining to watch a dwarf on the shoulders of a golem, stomping through the gardens and crying, _'Enchantment!'_?"

"The nobles in Hightown," Hawke said, with a disdainful curl of her lip, "do not believe in common _entertainment_. For them, it's the capitalized version,_ Entertainment_, or nothing."

"The difference being?" Anders shifted his weight and folded his arms, an amused smile on his face.

"Money, of course," Varric answered.

"And a decided lack of _fun_," Hawke added. She turned away from the golem and let her eyes travel down the line of waiting statues, none of which had so much as twitched when their brother - or sister - had come to life. Beyond the golems, the sort of raised promenade on which they were standing ended, a ruined set of steps leading down to what appeared to be a large, open hall of some sort in the distance. Just to their left, at the edge of the promenade, a jagged chasm gaped.

"I don't see any sign of the sword here," Hawke said thoughtfully. "Although these certainly seem to be the golems Emrys mentioned."

Varric snorted again. "If that little bastard Iwan had only made it a little further," he said, with a shake of his head.

"I, for one, am glad he didn't," Anders claimed. "Facing darkspawn and deepstalkers and giant spiders is bad enough. I'm not particularly keen to face golems as well."

Hawke lifted her shoulders. "Shall we see if the sword is just ahead? There seems to be a sizeable room up there."

Varric made a florid bow. "After you, my lady Hawke."

He eyed the golem. "And your delightful new garden accessory."

Hawke uttered a silvery peal of laughter, the stress and crankiness of the past five days underground dissolving, and started along the promenade in a jaunty swagger. The golem followed, in a thundering march that was the antithesis of either jaunty or swaggering.

They had not yet come abreast of the next golem in line when the creature suddenly stirred, limbs coming to life with the same grinding as the first.

Hawke glanced over her shoulder at the three of them. "Looks like I'll have a matched set," she caroled.

The new golem was moving toward her, gaining momentum.

"Hawke," said Shepard, suddenly filled with foreboding, "I have a bad feeling about this." She'd fought enough synthetics to recognize aggressive intent, even in creatures that theoretically shouldn't have either the emotion of _aggression_ or the implied consciousness of _intent_.

Hawke waved the control rod at the advancing golem, who was now nearly upon her, fists raised over its head.

"It's not working," she exclaimed, her surprise heavily modified by trepidation. "Why isn't it working?!"

The golem behind her stepped forward, catching the heavy blow as it came down. Hawke danced nimbly out of the way, still waving the rod like it was some kind of fairy godmother's wand. Then she swore and thrust the thing into her belt, hands snapping to the hilts of her daggers.

Varric dropped back, reaching over his shoulder for Bianca. Shepard did likewise, her mind assessing, analysing…

_Fire's probably out. Hawke will dull her blades before she can do more than knock chips out of it. Varric's bolts are probably also out… _

She brought Garrus to her shoulder and sighted.

_If the things are magic, Anders can probably hurt them. Let's see what a slug can do…_

She fired, absorbing the rifle's recoil and resettling the stock on her shoulder while her mind continued to process, her eye automatically seeking evidence that her shot had damaged the thing in any way.

There was a small divot in the creature's forehead.

Kal'Reegar's words came to her, from a lifetime ago on Haestrom. _Kill it with bug bites…_

She grunted. _That's about it…_

She sighted and fired again, striving for near-perfect accuracy. Each shot the same, every slug contacting the same few square centimeters.

Again. And again. And again.

Finally, the thing dropped to its knees, and then toppled to its side.

There were only a few times Shepard's fingers had itched this bad to caress the trigger of a missle launcher. _There's a weapon for every circumstance, Shepard. The trick is just figuring it out _ahead_ of time_.

The five of them regrouped, four of them staring down the line of remaining golems with resignation, and one with an expression of stony indifference that was, as it were, built in.

"What do you think the odds are that the rest of them are going to be friendly?" Varric asked quietly.

"Not good," Hawke admitted. "Probably very bad, in fact."

Shepard shook her head. "Never tell me the odds," she said flatly.

"Ah," Varric nodded sagely. "You prefer blind optimism. I can respect that."

"No," Shepard disagreed. "They just piss me off."

The golem said nothing.

"Why do I continue to follow you, Hawke?" Anders sighed, squinting at the potentially hostile golems and then back at the rogue.

"Her ass?" Varric quipped.

"It's a nice ass," Shepard agreed.

"Oh?" said Hawke archly. "Maybe when this is all over, you and I can go someplace quiet and you can tell what other parts of my body you admire."

Shepard rolled her eyes. "You've been spending a little too much time with the pirate, Hawke." She, too, squinted down the line of currently immobile statues.

"How do you want to work this?" she asked. "They seem to have some kind of proximity sensor. Do you think it's possible we can sneak by?"

Hawke glanced once at the chasm beyond the promenade. "Maybe. Maybe not. But keeping that close to the edge definitely puts us at a disadvantage when it comes to maneuvering."

Shepard nodded. "True. And I don't think we'd want to risk trying to sprint by, either. One of these things is hard enough to take down on it's own. I wouldn't like to have to fight three of them at once."

"You're telling me," said Hawke ruefully, looking down at her dulled blades.

"Magic seems to hurt them," Shepard acknowledged with a nod to Anders. "And a rifle will put one down eventually. But it's slow work."

"I wish I had more affinity with lightning," Anders frowned.

"From what Isabela has said, your skill with lightning is… _impressive_," countered Varric.

Anders flushed. "That… ah… particular spell is not difficult," he admitted sheepishly. "There is a great deal of difference between _that_ and disrupting an attacking golem."

Shepard's eyes snapped to the mage. "Electricity disrupts them?"

Anders snorted. "It disrupts everything."

"That gives me an idea." Shepard's deep emerald eyes narrowed. "Be ready. If this goes wrong…"

Varric caressed his crossbow's stock lovingly. "We're behind you, Starkiller."

This was sufficient to derail all thought in Shepard's mind. "Starkiller?"

The dwarf raised an eyebrow. "You did say you destroyed a star system."

"Not on my own! Or, well… not intention…" she halted. "Look, it was necessary, and I didn't destroy the system's star. I just… crashed an asteroid into a relay. It was the resulting explosion that… caused the damage."

"I don't know," said Hawke, grinning. "I kind of like it."

"It's appropriate," Varric argued. "And it rather adequately describes why you still scare the piss out of me."

Shepard scowled. "Oh, just shut up. Hold position for my command."

With a flicker, she disappeared into nothingness.

Anders shuddered. "I hate it when she does that," he complained.

The next golem in line suddenly began to move, its head turning as if searching for something. It seemed to spy the tightly packed squad, and began the rolling lumber the companions knew would gather speed as it crossed the distance to them.

There was a sizzle as the air superheated around a fat, arcing blue-white spark that suddenly speared the golem, freezing it in place and causing it to jerk spasmodically.

"Now!" came Shepard's voice from behind the golem. "Ranged attacks only!"

Hawke rummaged in a belt pouch as both Varric and the mage let fly with their attacks. A moment later, Hawke bounced a small globe in the palm of her hand, curled her fingers around it tightly, and whipped it in a sidearm motion at the golem. When the globe shattered against its chest, an acrid stink and wisps of vapor appeared as the acid inside began a caustic burn into the stone.

"_I said_ _ranged_ _attacks only!_" Shepard bellowed, as Hawke's golem suddenly began a charge.

Hawke grabbed for the control rod, waving it desperately. "I didn't tell it to!" she yelled back. "Maker's _cock_, I have no idea how this thing works!"

Just before the suddenly rogue friendly unit arrived, the hostile one dropped to its knees before Shepard. And promptly exploded.

Both Shepard and Hawke's golem were knocked back by the blast and resultant debris. In the golem's case, it simply toppled over backward. In Shepard's, she was flung a good fifteen meters, impacting the next golem in line and knocking the breath from her lungs, though her shields absorbed most of the damage.

Most.

_Ugh. I'll be feeling _that_ tomorrow._

The new golem ground to life, drawing one mountain-sized fist back and unloading a roundhouse on Shepard before she could dodge, and the Spectre was once again tossed through the air like a child's toy, tumbling and skidding when she hit the promenade.

_That one… that one I'll be feeling _now_._

Shepard gasped for air, recognizing the unmistakable feel of broken ribs, and slowly rolled to her hands and knees, blinking and shaking her head to clear her vision.

The friendly golem was clambering laboriously to its feet. The stink of acid said that Hawke had thrown another of her little surprises, and Anders' staff was whistling with through the air, alive with energy.

Shepard tried to push herself back on her feet, but tipped precariously, her vision still swimming.

_Make that broken ribs and a _concussion._ Much as you hate them, helmets have a purpose._

She gave up, and sat back abruptly on her butt, reaching over her shoulder for Garrus. _Fine. I'm a sniper, I can shoot from any position…_

_If I could _see_, I could shoot from any position._

Shepard shut her eyes tightly, then opened them and stared through a scope that seemed full of haze. Setting aside precision for the moment, she simply took aim at center mass, and squeezed the trigger.

_Breathe. Center. Push away pain. Push away thought._

Shepard felt the familiar stillness surround her. She fired as quickly as the powerful rifle's heat sink would allow, only dimly aware of anything other than the target. Her focus narrowed, sharpened, compensating for the double-vision, permitting her an accuracy that was… merely good, instead of fucking brilliant, but she'd take it.

The friendly golem had barely regained its balance when the hostile one aimed another Richter scale punch at it. Hawke's golem flung up an arm to block the punch, and countered with a blow of its own that staggered the hostile.

To Shepard, it looked like an underwater boxing bout. She continued to fire, taking a slightly longer pause between shots to ensure that the stone chest she was aiming at was the correct one.

She let out a noise that was half groan, half cheer as the penultimate stone warrior fell face first into the stone pavers of the promenade.

A moment later, Anders' hands were on her, checking the extent of the damage. Shepard swatted them away when the healer pressed gently on her side.

"Yes, yes," she said shortly. "They're broken. Probably a mild concussion as well."

"Shepard," the mage ordered sternly, "I need to know how badly. I can't do that unless you let me."

Mutely, Shepard held out her left arm, the information from her hardsuit miniframe on a display scroll across the omni-tool's interface.

Anders sighed, and focused his attention on it. After a moment, he nodded to himself and took Shepard's temples in his hands.

"This might be a little…"

"Argh!" Shepard shouted, as a brief sliver of icy pain shot through her head.

"…painful." The healer released her temples and moved his hands apart slightly, the azure glow of the healing magic flaring out to envelop the Spectre's body.

After a moment, he sagged, the energy winking out abruptly.

"Please tell me that did it," he panted.

Shepard scanned the new data as it scrolled by. "Close enough," she said, "but what about you?"

"I'm fine. Just… drained."

Hawke and Varric looked from the spent mage to the last golem and back again.

"Anders, stay out of this one," Hawke said, striding up to her golem and patting it on the back gingerly.

She pointed to the last immobile statue. "Go get him, boy," she told it.

"And you think that's going to…" Varric began, only to stop as the slightly battered golem broke into a lumbering run.

If the previous fight between golems had approximated an underwater boxing match, this one looked more like an equivalent sumo match, as the friendly golem caught the hostile one around the middle before it had even fully awoken and flung it to the ground.

"I feel like I should have money riding on this," Varric commented as he watched the golems grapple in rapt fascination.

Shepard forced herself to her feet. The double vision was gone, and her ribs no longer creaked with every movement, but she still felt like she'd just been run over by a Mako.

Hawke had begun cheering for her golem like a soccer mom at her kid's game.

"Why didn't we just do this from the beginning?" Shepard asked sharply.

"Stupidity, mostly," Varric answered.

"No, no!" Hawke cried, as her golem took a particularly nasty combo.

"Get up, get up!" she cried, as it fell to one knee.

"Oh, fuck it," said Shepard, stalking forward and overloading her omni-tool. The resultant arc of electricity wrapped around both golems.

"Shepard!" Hawke protested.

"Your golem was getting his ass kicked," Shepard replied.

"So? Now he's getting his ass fried!"

"If you have a better suggestion, I'm willing to hear it."

Varric set Bianca's stock to his shoulder and looked up at Shepard. "You wouldn't happen to have any of the qunari's gaatlok, would you?"

"No."

"Pity."

The charge fizzled out. Both golems swayed slightly, wisps of smoke rising from the stone. Both golems drew back a fist, and both golems punched. The sound as they both connected was like a thunderclap. Cracks appeared in Hawke's golem, widening quickly, until it just… came apart, chunks of stone rolling away in all directions.

The remaining golem turned its eyes on the rest of them and took a step forward.

Varric's explosive bolt hit it in the chest and detonated.

For a moment, there was a hail of small pebbles. Then there was a rain of large stones.

When the three humans and one dwarf cautiously lifted their heads, there was a smoking crater where the golem had been.

Hawke made an attempt to dust herself off.

Anders brushed some gravel out of his hair.

Shepard thumped the side of her head with the heel of her hand.

Varric looked around at the others. "Don't everyone thank me at once."

"No fear of that," muttered Anders under his breath.

"Well," said Hawke, brightly. "That was… unexpected. I must say, I'm rapidly losing interest in this sword."

"I never had any to begin with," Anders replied.

Varric shrugged. "Let's at least check this big vaulted hall. If there's no sign of the sword there, I vote we forget it and head back to the surface."

Shepard nodded agreement. "We did what we came here to do."

They carefully picked their way over the recent rubble to the broken stairway at the end of the promenade. Hawke motioned for the others to wait as she cautiously eased herself onto the stairway, testing to see if it was still sound.

"It's dwarven construction, Hawke. It'll be fine." Varric rubbed the side of his face wearily.

"All those collapsed passageways were dwarven construction, too," Anders reminded him. "Let Hawke do her thing."

"One at a time," Hawke called from the foot of the stairs. "They're definitely crumbling, and that chasm runs right underneath."

They followed Hawke's suggestion, negotiating the five or six wide steps one by one, until all four of them were safe. Hawke took point, as usual, and Shepard brought up the rear, covering the squad's six.

"Is that a door?" asked Varric, motioning ahead to the squad's right.

"Yes, I think it…" Hawke began, but Anders cut her off sharply.

"Darkspawn!"

_Where the hell do they come from?_ Shepard grunted, and lobbed an incendiary burst at the monsters rushing the from the direction of the promenade, following after it with her omni-blade ready.

After the difficulties posed by the stone golems, it seemed almost a relief to once again be facing an organic opponent. Hawke seemed to feel the same way; Shepard heard the rogue make a small sound of satisfaction when her blades found flesh rather than being deflected by stone.

The pack of darkspawn was small, and weighted heavily with archers. Scout patrol, Shepard surmised, as they made short work of the monsters. None of them would be reporting back to a larger unit.

Hawke wiped her blades on one of the corpses, and, as usual, began searching the bodies. Shepard understood the logic, but part of her wondered at how habitual it seemed for Hawke to loot… well, everything she came across. The rogue seemed completely undeterred even by bloated, decomposing carcasses.

_And how is that any different from you, Shepard? You'd search a week-old body if you had to._

Ah. There was the difference. Shepard would search a rotting corpse if _necessary_. Hawke would do so because it was there.

The scout patrol was apparently carrying very little of interest to Hawke. She pocketed a few coins, and tossed a strangely shaped pin to Varric.

"Anything?"

Varric examined it quickly. "Just an old dwarven house pin. Worth maybe a few coppers at most." He tossed it back.

Hawke shrugged and tucked it in her pouch with the coins. Anders caught Shepard's eye and smiled ruefully, with a tiny shake of his head.

_Hawke._

The rogue led them deeper into the hall, making for the doorway Varric had pointed out. Although at one time the impressively vaulted and pillared hall would have been breathtaking, the cracked stones of the floor were stained with blood and worse, and littered with piles of unnameable filth.

"If there is a bright center to creation," said Anders with distaste, "we're in the place it's farthest from."

The door in question was amazingly thick and heavy, built of solid stone to withstand punishment, but nonetheless was hanging open. The room inside appeared to have been a treasury at one point. Now, however…

"Bloody darkspawn shit on everything they touch. There's nothing here," Anders said sourly.

Several chests lay broken open, their contents smashed and scattered. If there had been a sword, it had either already been taken by the darkspawn, or had been destroyed like the rest of the chests' contents.

Hawke knelt and began rummaging anyway, coming up with a single pair of intact leather boots. She swung her light pack from her back and stuffed the boots inside. "It's something, anyway," she muttered. "Let's get out of here."

"We have company," Anders informed them.

Hawke slipped to the doorway of the treasury room and peeked out. "Andraste's flaming ass. There's a whole blasted pack of them out there!"

Shepard drifted up beside her, unshipping Garrus.

"There are _two emissaries_," Hawke added, as if the darkspawn had arranged that as a personal affront to the rogue.

There was an echoing boom. "One emissary, now," corrected Shepard, resettling the rifle against her shoulder.

Hawke gave the Spectre a tight grin and quickly fished a vial out of her pouch. "Can you give me a fireball in just a moment?"

Shepard grinned back. "Say the word," she replied, dropping the second emissary as the darkspawn boiled toward them.

The rogue gently tossed the vial through the doorway. It smashed on the floor about eight meters away, causing a faintly iridescent sheen to bloom over the stone.

"Now."

The burning ball of plasma hit the darkspawn just as they reached the slick, the oil igniting with a loud whoomph and the sound of screams.

"Nice," Shepard commented, picking off another darkspawn as it attempted to detour around the flaming oil. Hawke burst out of the cover of the doorway, hands already wrapping around her daggers' hilts.

Varric moved up into the position she'd just vacated, Bianca at the ready.

Between the fire and the two ranged attackers, Hawke found herself just mopping up the injured and dying, until a second wave of darkspawn erupted from somewhere near the golem's promenade. As she turned her attention to the newcomers, slashing and ripping with her daggers, she failed to see a third wave break from the far side of a steep stairway behind her.

"Shit!" cried Anders. "Ogre!"

Shepard swung her rifle around and trained it on the huge monster. The ogre was at least half again as big as a brute, impressively horned, fanged, and clawed. And also, very, very tough - despite scoring a headshot on it, the beast just shook its head and roared, charging for Hawke's unprotected back.

"Hawke," Anders shouted, sending a burst of ice at the monstrous creature, "ogre behind you!"

Shepard swore and swung herself out of cover, wishing as always that she didn't have to rely on just the Mantis. As she ran, she fired an incendiary burst at the group of darkspawn clustered around the ogre's legs.

When Hawke found herself sandwiched between a group of hurlocks and a charging ogre, she snatched another narrow glass tube from her belt pouch, throwing it to the ground at her feet. A thick cloud of smoke rose from the smashed container, obscuring the rogue and allowing her to disengage from the hurlocks and ease around their flank. As the hurlocks swung blindly through the smoke, Hawke slit one's throat and stabbed two others,with a fourth felled by friendly stab.

The ogre roared again. It had pulled up sharply when Hawke had disappeared into her smoke cloud, but now it crouched and lowered its head, preparing to charge once again. Whether it was dumb luck or perhaps its great height, it appeared that the ogre was not fooled by the smoke screen, and its charge caught the rogue, knocking her over even as she attempted to leap aside.

A massive hand snapped out and wrapped around Hawke's waist as she scrambled to get to her feet, and the ogre lifted the rogue into the air, shaking her viciously. As it prepared to crush the life from her, it suddenly stopped and screamed, dropping Hawke and stumbling two steps backward.

A thick line of dark ichor-like blood spurted from the ogre's lower abdomen where Shepard had run up one of its legs and slashed open its belly. As she leapt down, it swiped one gigantic, clawed hand at her while the other clutched at the terrible wound, trying desperately to keep its insides where they belonged.

Three of the talons snagged in her armor, and the fourth tore across Shepard's neck and face. The Spectre was flung across the room, achieving a state of uncontrolled flight for the third time in little more than an hour. Her body impacted the wall, rebounded, and dropped to the floor like a brick.

Anders sent another wave of healing energy at Hawke, and was rewarded by seeing the rogue crawl to her feet, groping for the daggers that had fallen from her hands.

Varric was running for the fray, although his finger never wavered from Bianca's trigger. He sent bolt after bolt into the darkspawn, dropping a few and slowing the others down.

"Hawke," he called, his voice roughened by worry and fear, "throw another oil flask!"

Hawke seemed dazed, her hands moving slowly, clumsily, as she fumbled at her belt.

"Hawke!"

Her fingers closed over the vial she wanted, and the rogue tossed it toward the largest concentration of remaining darkspawn.

Varric paused only long enough to slot an explosive bolt home, and fired, ducking his head against the blast.

As the bolt exploded, scattering darkspawn and darkspawn bits in all directions, the ogre fell to its knees. A faint blue-white coil of intestine could be seen pushing its way through the creature's gut wound.

Hawke staggered as she broke into a run, charging for the last remaining few enemies that weren't frozen, on fire, or crawling slowly across the ground.

Varric trailed after her, shooting upright targets and stabbing the crawling wounded with the razor-sharp bayonet affixed to Bianca's delightful underside.

"Shepard's not moving," Anders yelled, darting across the corpse-strewn battlefield as the two rogues dealt with the final darkspawn.

"Is she…?" Hawke called to him as her daggers ripped through the final darkspawn.

"Alive, but badly injured. Very badly," the healer replied.

As Hawke and Varric approached, they could see what the mage meant. Shepard's neck and face had been slashed open by the ogre's claws, and she was bleeding heavily. Anders held his palm tightly against the Spectre's neck, but blood was still seeping through his fingers.

"I don't dare close it - not with all this darkspawn blood," he said desperately. "Hawke, get that potion I used on you earlier out of my pack."

The rogue did as he asked quickly, uncorking the bottle before starting to hand it to the mage. He shook his head. "No. I need you to pour it over the wounds. Start slowly. I will move my hand aside briefly - douse the wound thoroughly as quickly as you can. I'll need to start closing the wound very soon or she will bleed to death."

Hawke nodded and gently tipped the bottle until a steady trickle poured from the mouth.

Anders lifted aside his hand, and both Hawke and the wound responded - Hawke, by tipping the bottle further, and the wound by oozing blood in time with Shepard's heartbeat.

The Spectre didn't stir, even as the burning liquid splashed over her neck and face.

"That's good," said Anders, dropping his hands back to the wound. Sweat broke out on the healer's brow, his face screwed up in agonized concentration. His breathing became ragged and harsh, and his hands and finally arms and shoulders began trembling with exertion.

He passed out.

**-ooo-**

When Anders regained consciousness, he was lying on his side on his bedroll. In front of him, a small fire crackled.

"Careful," warned Hawke. Her hands grasped his shoulders gently, helping him into a sitting position.

The mage groaned and clutched his head. "Shepard?" he whispered.

"Still alive, Blondie," said Varric. "You did good."

Shepard was lying a few feet away on her own bedroll. Her breathing was slow, but steady. She appeared to still be unconscious.

"Has she woken up at all?" he managed, accepting a waterskin from Hawke.

Hawke shook her head. "Not yet."

Anders drank sparingly. They still had several days' journey back to the surface.

"How long was I out?" He sipped again.

Varric shrugged. "A couple of hours."

Anders glanced around. Apparently, the rogues had set camp right there against the wall. It was a fairly defensible position, being bounded on one side by the chasm and another by the wall itself.

"We'll rest here a while - until Shepard wakes up," Hawke went on. "Varric's been studying your map and thinks he may have found a shortcut back to the surface."

"Praise the Maker," murmured the healer, forcing himself to crawl the few feet to Shepard's side. "That would be the best news I've heard since we set foot down here."

The wound on Shepard's neck had closed to a thick, angry red line. Her cracked armor was absolutely covered in drying, sticky blood, save where the Warden's potion had washed it away. The wounds on her face were still open, though, and glowed with a faint reddish light.

"What in Andraste's name is that?" he muttered, running his fingers along the deep cuts.

"Ah-ah," scolded Hawke, grabbing his wrist lightly. "You need to rest. Shepard's breathing and heartbeat are strong for now."

She pulled him back to his bedroll. Varric pushed some hard cheese and jerky into his hands.

"Eat, Blondie." The dwarf made a face. "If you can," he added, glancing around at the remains on the battlefield.

"It won't be the first time I've had to choke down a meal with the smell of darkspawn flesh in my nose," Anders sighed.

"It's the ogre," explained Hawke apologetically.

Varric shook his head ruefully. "And I thought they smelled bad on the outside."

Anders began to eat methodically. He hadn't been lying when he said it wasn't the first time he'd had to do so surrounded by darkspawn corpses. He'd found that the Wardens' infamous appetite helped in those situations. The body demanded food - all the mind had to do was blank out the sensory information from the nose.

When he finished wolfing down the rations, he sipped from the waterskin again and Varric opened the map to show him the new route the dwarf had discovered. Anders agreed that it looked like a viable option.

The healer laid back on his bedroll again and closed his eyes. His head was still pounding - one of the telltale symptoms of magical overexertion. As was the utter exhaustion he felt in every muscle. If he didn't know better, he'd swear he'd been laboring in the mines for days.

The rogues let him rest for another hour or so before waking him. Shepard still wasn't fully awake, but she'd shifted position, rolling over onto her side and curling up loosely. Anders checked her heartbeat and breathing again, and was pleased that they remained strong. The wound on her neck looked better, too, the redness fading to an irritated pink. Her cheek and jaw were still open and glowing, but there didn't seem to be any oozing from the slashes, so Anders shrugged it off. He'd ask her about it later.

"I'm going to try to wake her," Anders told the others. "Normally, I would let her awaken on her own - it's the best course - but I'm not comfortable with us staying around all these corpses." His face grew grim. "A feast like this won't go unnoticed for long."

Hawke nodded, and she and Varric began breaking camp.

Anders laid a hand on Shepard's shoulder and gave her a gentle little shake. "Shepard," he called softly.

He repeated the actions a second time when she gave no response. This time she stirred, groaning.

Her eyelids flickered and finally opened. For a moment, Anders thought that her eyes glowed red, deep within the green, but the redness faded as she moved her head and he chalked it up to a reflection of the firelight.

"How do you feel?" he asked quietly. "I realize the question might be a stupid one."

"You're right," she croaked, struggling into a sitting position with the healer's help. "What the hell happened?"

"The ogre got you," Anders said simply. "You hit the wall pretty hard, and hit the ground even harder."

He looked down at his hands. "I did my best to heal you, but…"

"Yeah," Shepard replied, understanding both the unspoken words and the guilt that went with them. "It's okay."

He handed her the waterskin and helped hold it while she drank.

"You should try to eat a little food," Anders suggested, but Shepard shook her head.

"Varric's found us a shortcut," Hawke put in, as she shooed Shepard off her blankets and began to roll them tightly. "With a little luck, we should be back on the surface in two days. A bit shorter if we push."

Shepard's expression said very clearly what she thought about _pushing_. At least for the moment.

"You think you can stand?" Anders asked, getting to his feet and holding out his hands.

Shepard grasped his hands in her own and let the healer help haul her to her feet. She put out an arm to steady herself on the wall for a moment, then squared her shoulders. The crack in her chestplate widened as she moved, and she looked down at it, frowning.

"Hell," she said shortly. "Anders, help me out of this thing."

"Are you sure?" asked Hawke, with concern. "We may still meet more darkspawn."

Shepard shook her head. "It won't offer me much protection like this," she said. "It's not worth the discomfort or the possible injury if it should shatter."

Anders helped her unfasten the clamps and seals, and they removed the armor from her shoulders, back, and chest. By the time they'd finished, Hawke and Varric were ready to go.

"Ready?" Hawke asked the group.

"More than ready," sighed Shepard. "I've had enough of the Dark Roads to last me a lifetime."

"Seconded," agreed Anders emphatically.

"Thirded," Varric stated firmly.

Hawke rolled her eyes.

"You know,"she said with a mock pout, "I find your lack of faith disturbing."

* * *

_A/N: Ha! I bet you thought I'd never update again. Ever._

_It was a close-run thing, but I managed not to do my academic work in favor of this. Almost fourteen-effing-thousand words._

_Now, of course, I think it should really be two chapters. And it probably should. But I figure my chapters are kind of effed-up anyway, so... what the hell._

_And in case it wasn't already clear what kind of a dork I am, there is this chapter. What? I needed something to keep me from attempting to stab myself repeatedly with a laptop._


	22. Chapter 21

**Chapter Twenty-One**

Shepard read the passage again, a faint frown creasing her face and causing the glow of the implants under her skin to become more pronounced.

_When the Ashkaari looked upon the destruction wrought by locusts,  
He saw at last the order in the world.  
A plague must cause suffering for as long as it endures,  
Earthquakes must shatter the land.  
They are bound by their being.  
Asit tal-eb. It is to be.  
For the world and the self are one.  
Existence is a choice.  
A self of suffering, brings only suffering to the world.  
It is a choice, and we can refuse it. _

She set the slender volume down, chewing on her bottom lip as she thought about the words.

Shepard had been mildly surprised to find that the tenets of the qunari philosophy were couched both elegantly and enigmatically in lines that read more like verse than doctrine. Deciphering the meaning behind the words took thought and introspection.

A fighter by nature and inclination, Shepard found the words both strangely attractive and utterly abhorent. Attractive, for they seemed to hint at a kind of inner knowledge and peace she'd rarely known; abhorent for their terrible fatalism. While it may be true that the earthquake must shatter the land, Shepard refused to accept that there was any reason not to do everything in her power to minimize the damage. And as far as plagues went, Shepard's mind couldn't help conjuring the image of one scientist salarian. Mordin would say you don't _endure_ a plague, you _cure_ it. Possibly studying it closely to assess any potential use in future as a bioweapon, granted, but also with an eye toward vaccinations, treatment plans, and strict containment.

No. Shepard was many things - a realist, she would say, bordering on the cynical; others might call her a pessimist - but a fatalist she was not.

She sighed, and picked up the book once more.

A knock at the door interrupted her before she could delve once again into the pages.

"Shepard?" called a voice.

"Come in, Merrill."

"How do you always know it's me?" the elven mage asked curiously as she entered.

"Magic," replied Shepard.

Merrill frowned. "What kind of magic is that then? I thought you couldn't use mag…" she stopped as she caught sight of Shepard's smile. "Oh. You were being sarcastic, weren't you?"

Shepard's smile widened. "I recognized your voice, Merrill."

"Of course," the elf said with embarrassment. "I should have…" she trailed off. "Hawke wants to see you."

"Let me guess…" Shepard said with wry humor, "she's off on a new adventure that I'm absolutely going to love, right up until the time it gets me killed."

"Really?" Merrill asked, eyes wide. "All she told _me_ was that she had something for you."

Shepard laughed, and got to her feet, smoothing the fabric of her new clothing. It wasn't quite what she was used to, but a far cry closer than Hawke's castoffs, with the added bonus that these were made to fit her taller frame. One thing Shepard's unexpected sojourn in Thedas had given her was an appreciation for bespoke tailoring. She'd never realized what a difference it made to have clothing specifically crafted for you. Even her armor had always been modular, designed to fit a myriad of body shapes within a specific size range.

_If I ever get back, I swear I'm going to have all my clothes custom-made - armor too. I think the galaxy owes me _that _much_.

She carried the book into the bedroom, and locked it carefully in the chest with her armor.

_Still need to find some more corundum. That chestpiece is going to need it._

Shepard turned away from the chest and its contents and crossed back out to the apartment door.

"Are you coming with me?" she asked Merrill.

The elf shook her head. "No. I have to get back home. I've got… things… to do."

Shepard gave the elf a sharp look at her suddenly evasive tone, but Merrill didn't seem to notice. Mostly because she was doing her best to look anywhere but Shepard.

_Whatever she's doing, she doesn't want me to know about it. Me specifically, or anyone in general. And she's a terrible liar._

Shepard studied the elven girl for a moment and then shrugged. "All right."

The locks on the door were crude, even with Isabela and Hawke's upgrades, but they were better than nothing, Shepard supposed. She made sure they were all fastened and latched, and then followed Merrill out to the shady courtyard.

"Dareth shiral, Shepard," said Merrill, with a little wave over her shoulder as she turned toward the building that housed her apartment.

"I'll see you later, Merrill," Shepard replied.

**-ooo-**

"Good morning, messere," Bodahn greeted Shepard, ushering her into the entry foyer of Hawke's estate. He eyed the gashes on her face with a worried frown. "I hope you were well enough to come?"

Shepard's fingers drifted to the wounds. "I'm fine," she assured the dwarven manservant. "My face… doesn't always heal so well."

Bodahn gave her an _if you say so_ look, and led her in the direction of a door near the stairs. "Messere Hawke is in the library with Guard Captain Aveline," he informed her, waving her through.

"Thanks, Bodahn." Shepard gave him a polite nod.

Aveline appeared to have been pacing, but stopped when she heard the door open.

"Ah," she said, folding her heavily armored arms over her even more impressively armored chest. "If it isn't public enemy number two."

Shepard's eyebrows jumped toward her hairline. "I'm a public enemy now?"

"And right in line behind me," said Hawke with a smile. "I'm so proud I could just burst."

Aveline ignored them both. "I've heard about your little massacre in the alienage," the Guard Captain said. "Would you care to explain?"

Her voice was stern, but Shepard had a lifetime of reading people. She could see a suppressed smile in the way the corners of Aveline's blue-grey eyes turned up.

Shepard decided to play along, mirroring the Guard Captain's pose and schooling her voice into neutrality. "There were hardly enough of them to make it a massacre," she said dryly. "But if you'd like, I could arrange something on a more suitable scale."

Aveline gave a bark of laughter and dropped her hands. "To hear my men tell it, it was forty men and a mabari*."

Shepard shook her head. "There weren't more than a dozen," she disagreed. "And only a couple who could really fight."

"You killed them all anyway," Aveline pointed out.

"All but one of them," Shepard acknowledged.

"Oh?"

"I wanted to be sure that word… got around," Shepard bit out.

The blue-grey eyes studied Shepard quietly for a long moment. "I don't like wholesale slaughter in my city, Shepard," she said, a warning note in her voice.

_Maybe your guards ought to do their jobs better then,_ were the words on the tip of Shepard's tongue. She swallowed them back. Shepard had actually heard mostly good things about Aveline and her guards. It probably wasn't the Guard Captain's fault that, like every law enforcement agency, the Kirkwall guard was understaffed.

"I don't like slavers," Shepard answered simply. "Especially not those who prey on the marginalized."

Aveline's eyes narrowed. "They were slavers? You're sure?"

"They had one of the families that live in the next building in chains," Shepard said. "That doesn't leave much room for interpretation."

When Aveline started to open her mouth, Shepard raised her hand. "And," she added, "none of them were wearing the uniform of the guard, so it wasn't fucking likely that the family was being arrested." She shrugged. "Besides, toddlers aren't generally put in handcuffs even by the most draconic of law enforcement agencies - of which your guard is not one."

Aveline nodded, her eyes thoughtful.

"Officially," she said, "I have to tell you that the Viscount's Office looks down on vigilantism. However, on behalf of the guard," Aveline smiled gratefully, "I will say thank you."

"Oh," pouted Hawke. "Does that mean Shepard has fallen off the public enemy list already?" She sighed theatrically. "Well, it was fun while it lasted."

"_Hawke_," Aveline shook her head with exasperation.

"_Aveline_," Hawke perfectly matched the Guard Captain's tones.

Aveline laughed again. "I don't know why I put up with you, Hawke."

"I don't know why, either."

With a roll of her eyes, Aveline made for the door. "I'll see you later, Hawke," she said firmly. "Shepard," she paused as she came abreast of the Spectre, "you should really have Anders take a look at those wounds."

Shepard shrugged. "They're not really wounds any more," she answered. "More like scars. They'll heal eventually… maybe. There's not a lot anyone can do about them."

Aveline voiced the words Bodahn had not. "If you say so, Shepard. Take care of yourself."

They watched the Guard Captain exit through the library door. Bodahn's voice could be heard as he escorted Aveline out of the mansion.

Hawke's eyes snapped back to Shepard, and she gave the Spectre a sudden, crazy grin. "Now that the law has left…" She motioned for Shepard to follow her out into the main hall of the home.

"I'm not sure I like the sound of that…" Shepard muttered.

The redhead just waved a hand at her, leading the way over to a large chest that stood beside Hawke's small secretary desk. Shepard shook her head in mute astonishment when the rogue began picking the lock rather than actually using a key.

"You know, technically, it isn't stealing if it already belongs to you," she said.

"Really?" Hawke asked sarcastically, rolling her eyes. "I had no idea."

She lifted the lid of the chest and dipped her hand inside, withdrawing a large, sueded pouch. "For you," she said solemnly, although her eyes glittered with amusement.

Shepard eyed the rogue as she took the pouch, weighing it in the palm of her hand. Whatever was inside rolled and clicked together with a sound like ivory dice. A terrible suspicion blossomed in Shepard's mind.

"You didn't," she said flatly.

Hawke grinned widely. "Oh, but I did."

Shepard turned to the secretary, loosening the knots on the bag and gently shaking the contents over the polished inlay.

Stones - some nearly as large as a chicken egg - winked up at her, in hues of blue and red and pink and orange and yellow and grey. Most were raw and uncut, smoky or cracked with flaws, but others…

Shepard lifted a perfectly cut ruby larger than her thumbnail, the deep and vibrant red of fresh blood. On the Citadel, a stone like it would easily fetch thousands of credits. More, because it was natural stone, not lab-made.

"Hawke…"

The rogue held up a protesting hand. "No. None of that," she said firmly. "You almost got yourself killed helping me in the Deep Roads. Your armor was damaged. And we picked up absolutely _nothing_ on the trip. This," she gestured at the stones, "is the least I can do to thank you." Hawke's grin was lazy and wicked. "Besides, it was fun."

"Thank you, Hawke," Shepard managed. She could just picture the rogue prowling the homes and shops of Hightown the past few nights, playing jewel thief. Yes, she imagined Hawke had enjoyed herself thoroughly.

"Are there enough, do you think?" Hawke asked, looking down at the impressive display of larceny.

Shepard shrugged. "Hard to say. I don't know how much raw aluminum oxide my omni-tool can get per gram of gemstone. And while I know that aluminum oxide makes a decently hard ceramic, that's about all I do know."

Hawke gave her a tip-tilt look. "How will you be able to make the repairs, then? I doubt the armorers here will be able to help you…"

Shepard laughed shortly and tapped her omni-tool. "I don't need to know, thankfully. The minifabricator will do all the work for me."

Hawke frowned suddenly. "You know, I can't imagine what it's like where you come from," she said slowly. "Ships that go between stars, machines that do thinking for you…"

"Don't forget real indoor plumbing, complete with municipal sewer systems," Shepard added.

"No Circle. No Templars…" Hawke's voice dropped. "I wonder what my family's life would have been like if we'd have lived there instead of here in Thedas."

Shepard shrugged. "Hard telling," she said. "You might have grown up on Earth, in one of the big cities, or in a smaller town in the middle of nowhere. You could have been well-off and lived in a house or a nice apartment, or you could have been poor, like me, and lived in the projects. You could have grown up off-world, on Arcturus station or one of the colony worlds, or even on the Citadel itself." She gave Hawke a shrewd look. "About the only thing for certain is that you wouldn't be who you are today. That person wouldn't exist."

Hawke's brow furrowed and her mouth opened, but Shepard cut her off. "No, hear me out," she said. "It's our past that makes us who we are. Genetics - who your parents are - plays a part, sure, but it's a person's experiences that shapes them into what they will be. Your experiences would not be the same, so you would be someone other than the Hawke we know."

"My father and brother might still be alive, though," replied Hawke tightly.

"Maybe," Shepard agreed. "Or you all could be dead, killed and harvested by the Reapers."

Hawke scowled darkly. "Anyone ever tell you you're a beacon of brightness and hope?"

"Not that I know of."

"How surprising."

**-ooo-**

Shepard ran her fingers over the chestpiece for the third time. There was a slight difference in the texture where her omni-tool had applied the ceramic patch, but otherwise, the repair looked perfect. She smiled with satisfaction, and turned her attention to the rest of her hardsuit, which was currently laid out on the cot that served as her bed.

There'd been enough aluminum oxide in the gemstones to perform major repairs to all of the ceramic plates, and enough concentrated carbon in the lone diamond to repair some of the carbon nanotubles in the underlying scaffolding. As a result, Shepard figured her armor was stronger than it had been at any time after Hammer's assault. She was a little concerned about some of the seals at this point, but reminded herself that she wasn't going to be facing low atmo or deep vac any time soon.

_Good enough for government work, in other words._

Slowly, she began to put the armor on. Technically, she didn't expect to need it for what she planned to do, but she'd picked up on the fact that the Arishok approved of her wearing combat gear, so full kit it would be.

She clipped Garrus in place and headed out, nodding politely to the few elves that were in the courtyard as she passed through. Her cred in the alienage had gone way up as a result of the incident with the slavers. Not all of the alienage's inhabitants were comfortable with Shepard being in their midst, but there seemed to be a certain amount of acknowledgment that she might prove useful to have around.

Shepard had yet to test her newfound freedom in the qunari compound - one of the purposes behind her current mission. The other, of course, being to send a message to the Arishok. About what, exactly, Shepard wasn't entirely clear. Partly to reinforce that she wouldn't simply wait to be summoned, and partly, she supposed, as an earnest of intent - to prove she really did mean to learn all she could from the qunari.

Shepard was just completing the descent into the docks when she caught sight of a familiar figure in full plate mail, wearing the crimson livery of the Templar order. By the slight narrowing of his eyes, Shepard could tell that the Knight-Captain had recognized her as well.

"Ah. If it isn't serah Hawke's Orlesian friend," he said, pointedly emphasizing the word _Orlesian_. "The one with not a _trace_ of an Orlesian accent."

"Hawke takes too much on herself to keep the peace," Shepard replied, leaning with a battle-hardened nonchalance against the wall of the stairwell.

The Templar's fair eyebrows rose. "Are we speaking of the same Hawke? While I admit to her having… assisted… the Order on occasion, hardly a week goes by in which Hawke is not mentioned in Templar reports as having been involved in some kind of skirmish."

"If you don't believe that Hawke keeps the peace, you're blind _as well as_ stupid."

Muscles in the Templar's jaw bunched as he fought to keep control of his temper. "You are deliberately goading me, serah," he said tightly. "Do not think I will rise to it."

Shepard pushed lightly off the wall and closed the distance between them with even, deliberate steps. "What is your name, slaver?"

"I am Knight-Captain Cullen of the Templar Order, serah, and no slaver - as you well know," Cullen snapped. "Your persistence in calling me such is yet another transparent attempt to bait me."

"You keep people imprisoned against their will. How is that different from slavery?" Shepard demanded.

Cullen folded his arms on his chest. "And is the jailer at the Keep also a slaver?" he questioned sharply.

"Having met Guard-Captain Aveline, I have no doubts that anyone there deserves to be," she retorted. "The only crime _your_ inmates have committed is having been born different than you."

The Knight-Captain's eyes narrowed even further. "The duty of the Tempars is to ensure that mages are kept safely _controlled_, not enslaved."

"And do you enjoy it?" Shepard asked, her voice dangerously low.

Cullen's lips thinned. "It is necessary," he responded firmly.

"Do you enjoy it?" The Spectre's words were hard; her eyes doubly so.

The Templar's eyes slid away from Shepard's piercing stare. "I… find satisfaction in knowing I am protecting innocents," he replied slowly. His gaze flickered back to Shepard's. "On both sides," he added.

To her everlasting surprise, Shepard found herself backing down. She was no less affronted by the Circle and it's Templars, but Shepard could not bring herself to actually detest the man before her.

_He sincerely believes that what he's doing is the right thing in the circumstances. That _this_ is the best solution to a difficult problem. _

_He's wrong, of course, but he's actually - _shit_ - he's actually trying his best to be a good man, the poor, stupid jackass._

She shook her head. "You honestly believe that, don't you?" Shepard voiced the thought aloud. "You can't think of a better solution, so you try to do your best with the one you've got."

Cullen looked as surprised as Shepard felt by the sudden change in her demeanor. "Can _you_ think of a better way?"

"We have a saying where I come from, one that's been the basis for our judicial system for hundreds of years. _Innocent until proven guilty_," Shepard said quietly.

She held eye contact for a brief moment as she moved past him. "I trust you'll think about it, Captain."

**-ooo-**

Unconsciously, Shepard took a deep breath as she mounted the steps to the compound's gate. Part of her fully expected to be turned away unceremoniously.

Despite doing her best to identify the kossith on guard detail, Shepard found herself seeing only a large, perfectly chiseled body and a familiarly rugged, impassive face surmounted by a collar-length mane of white hair and the ubiquitous horns.

She gave him a polite nod. "Karasten?" she said, with just enough of a question to let the soldier know she was taking a guess. For a human, it would also indicate a willingness to be corrected, although given the differences in attitude, Shepard wasn't exactly sure this would translate.

_Translate… god, it would be nice if I had a qunari grammar and dictionary to upload._

The soldier's face remained completely impassive, but his eyes - a dark topaz color bordering on orange - flickered briefly with surprise.

"_Karasaad_," he corrected. "You may pass, basra."

Shepard nodded again, this time with satisfaction. "Karasaad."

"Basra."

As she began to cross the compound in the direction of the library tent, one of the kossith warriors fell in smoothly just behind her left shoulder. He made no move to halt her or impede her progress, and did not speak until she had reached her destination. Once there, he simply extended one arm before her.

"The Arishok cannot see you now, basra," he said quietly. "You will wait here." The soldier paused for a moment. "Please," he added.

Shepard quirked an eyebrow at the afterthought, but nodded her assent, and the soldier slipped away silently.

The library tent appeared to be empty, and Shepard's mind quickly tossed out a memory.

_If it is convenient, you will have access to some of the tomes here, under supervision._

She wondered whether the wait reflected a lack of the first, or the second, condition. After a moment, Shepard decided on the second - if her timing had been inconvenient, she suspected she would have been turned away from the tent rather than simply asked to wait.

Her surmise was proven correct a short time later as she spied an incongruously small figure moving through the giants.

"Ah, Shepard," the human greeted her.

"Asa," she returned.

"Please," he swept an arm toward the tent, indicating she was free to enter.

Shepard pushed aside the tent flap and strode easily up to the first of the bookshelves, only to find herself at a loss. Most of the volumes did not bear titles on the spines or on their covers, and none of the scrolls were marked in any way.

Behind her, Asa chuckled dryly. The healer seemed to have completely recovered from whatever discomfiture marred the end of their first meeting.

Shepard shot him an irritated glance over her shoulder.

He brushed by her and regarded the shelves critically. "Sit," he ordered.

Although the healer's attention appeared to be wholly fixed on the shelves before him, he must have been peripherally aware of Shepard's body language as her jaw firmed and her shoulders set squarely. Or perhaps he had garnered enough of a perception of Shepard's personality from their initial meeting to guess at her response to an order. Either way, he softened his voice when he repeated himself.

"Go, sit," he said, gesturing slightly at the massive table. "I will select appropriate materials that you will be able to understand."

Before Shepard to do more than open her mouth to retort, he clarified his last statement. "Unless, of course, you know how to read Qunlat."

_Oh, yeah._ That.

Sheepishly, Shepard turned her attention to the table. The heavy chair that she'd so often seen occupied by the Arishok beckoned her, but she resolutely pulled out the uncomfortable stool and settled herself at her usual place just opposite.

By the subtle twitch of his eyebrows when Asa turned to face her, a scroll held loosely in his hand, Shepard knew she'd made the right choice.

"Navagational charts," he explained, as he handed over the scroll. "Complied from many sources, so you'll find that not everything is in the common tongue. I can assist you if you require."

Shepard looked at him with surprise. "How many languages do you speak?" she asked.

Asa smiled briefly. "Three," he answered. "But my studies have taught me to read several others."

A sudden curiosity blossomed. "And the Arishok?" Shepard inquired.

"Officially," he said, a slightly mischievous twitch lifting the corner of his mouth, "he speaks two."

Shepard returned the expression. "And unofficially?" she prompted.

The healer lifted his shoulders and let them fall. "Who knows. I suspect he understands far more than he speaks."

"I suspect you're right," she agreed dryly.

Cautiously, for she'd already had a few misadventures with scrolls in the Chantry's library, Shepard began to unroll the document. After a moment, Asa uttered a soft chuckle and halted her with a gesture.

"What?" Shepard demanded defensively. "Look, if you'd people would just hurry up and invent digital documents, this would all be so much easier."

"It would also be easier if you just handled the scroll properly," Asa commented. He took the document from her gently and demonstrated the art of simultaneously rolling one end while unrolling the other. "Like this, see?"

Embarrassed but enlightened by the lesson, Shepard grumbled, "Digital would still be easier."

The healer cocked his head. "Digital being a special kind of codex?"

Unsure of his meaning, Shepard could only shake her head. "Here," she said. "See for yourself."

To keep things simple, Shepard pulled up the Alliance field manual for first aid - a subject she had no doubt the healer would recognize - on her omni-tool and beckoned Asa to her side.

Puzzled and startled by the sight of the active 'tool, the healer hesitated.

"It won't hurt you," Shepard said with exasperation. "And before you ask, no, it isn't magic. It's simply a device."

Frowning slightly, dark eyebrows pulling down and toward his nose, Asa stooped over Shepard's shoulder and peered at the holographic viewscreen.

After a moment, she heard him gasp. "This is… a medical text?"

"Not much of one," she said. "But standard military issue." A grin quirked her lips. "There are running jokes about some of the illustrations, they're so bad."

"Your soldiers are taught medicine?" Asa seemed shocked by the idea.

Shepard made a low humming sound. "Yes and no," she answered, waggling her right hand back and forth. "Every soldier learns basic battlefield first aid. Some soldiers get additional training based on their designation - triage, for example. And some are fully trained field medics, in addition to being soldiers - a tradition that goes back to the old 20th century PJs." She smiled. "There's something of a rivalry between pararescue and special forces as to whose training is more difficult."

Asa's striking hazel eyes regarded Shepard with interest. "And this isn't considered inefficient? To be not fully one thing and not fully another?"

Shepard snorted. "Hell, no," she said vehemently. "I give those guys credit where it's due. They're crack soldiers, and damn fine medics. And trust me, there's _nobody_ you want to see more when you're injured behind lines than pararescue. It generally means your ass has a chance of getting out alive and mostly in one piece."

When the healer failed to look convinced, Shepard tried to explain further. "Rescue jumpers are the _elite_," she said. "It's not a case of settling for a medic that can _sort of_ shoot a rifle, or making due with a soldier that can _kind of_ patch you up. They really are that damn good."

A flash of loyalty to her own designation surfaced, and she added hastily, "Not special forces good, of course. But good."

"You really believe this?" Asa said skeptically. "That there is _no_ difference between one who has exclusively trained in medicine and one whose training has been split between medicine and combat?"

"God, no," Shepard was quick to disagree. "That's not what I'm saying at all. Rescue jumpers are good medics, but that's all they are. They're not a substitute for a surgeon, for example," she caught Asa's eye and rephrased herself. "That is, someone who has spent their whole life studying and practicing medicine. But they're the ones _who_ _will keep you alive_ until you can get to that person."

"Hmmm," Asa hummed thoughtfully, turning at last from Shepard and directing his attention back to the bookshelves. Shepard could see his eyes occasionally flash back in her direction, though, and he once again had a distant, abstracted air.

_Now. Is that a sign that I've offended him, or that I've simply made him think? Last time, it seemed obvious. Now I'm not so sure._

With a little huff of an exhale, Shepard picked up the scroll again, manipulating it the way Asa had shown her. As the healer had indicated, the writing was not uniform. Some, perhaps most, was in a script Shepard couldn't begin to decipher. But there were notes here and there written in what Shepard thought of as English, as well as a few other languages that seemed to have roots common to the so-called Romance languages of Earth.

"I am definitely going to need some translation help," she murmured to the healer. Nonetheless, Shepard brought up the files she'd created from the Chantry's materials and began attempting to cross-reference from one source to the other.

Almost immediately, her head began to hurt.

Shepard had never been much of a scholar. Despite high intelligence and a natural aptitude for learning new skills, Shepard had detested formal education, and was a dropout. She'd completed her equivalency testing as a condition of her enlistment, and, under heavy pressure from a younger, then-Lieutenant David Anderson, submitted to further evaluation testing for officer fast-tracking. Perhaps unsurprisingly, she'd failed the latter - Shepard's promotions had come about solely through her field performance and recommendation from her COs - and set the precedent for what was to become an infamous love-hate relationship with learning. Anyone who'd served with her soon realized that given an interest in a subject, Shepard had a voracious appetite for knowledge, particularly the hands-on sort. On the other hand, even something as simple as a two-day required classroom course was sure to find Shepard among the worst performers.

It had driven the more conservative, by-the-books kind of brass absolutely nuts, and earned her the amusement of the more relaxed thinkers in the Alliance Navy.

It also meant that Shepard - self-taught in so many areas - lacked any idea of how to properly study _anything_. Her tactic when faced with the prospect was invariably a full frontal assault; total immersion in the subject matter and a reliance on an impressive memory and ability to assimilate information quickly.

The drawbacks to this method were becoming uncomfortably obvious to Shepard as she attempted to get a handle on the larval stage science of astronomy as it existed in Thedas.

After perhaps a half-hour of struggle, while Asa perused the bookshelves and pulled further scrolls and books, piling them neatly on one corner of the table, Shepard gave a growl of frustration and put her head in her hands, massaging her temples.

The healer paused, glancing up from the volume he was leafing through.

"Problem?" he asked.

"This is crazy," Shepard complained. "I think I've got points of overlap, but nothing's consistent!" She glanced down at her omni-tool again, and thumped the table with her free hand. "This is worse than trying to calculate trajectories with nothing but an abacus and slide rule."

Shepard gestured at the scroll angrily. "And it doesn't help that half of this isn't even in an alphabet I recognize! What is this, anyway?"

Asa gave her a sympathetic look. "Qunlat. In it's pure form."

Shepard scowled. "Pure form?" she asked.

Asa nodded, and selected a well-worn book from the shelf, bringing it to Shepard's side. He opened it to a random page.

"Here, on the left, is the pure form," he explained, running a finger along a column of graceful script from right to left. "And, on the right, the vulgar," he added, transferring the finger to the opposite column of more familiarly-shaped letters and tracing from left to right.

"Those born to the qun can read both equally well. Most viddathari, however, only learn vulgar."

Shepard gave a little head tilt. "Viddathari being those who covert later in life?"

Asa gave a short nod.

"So you were taught vulgar, then?" Shepard guessed.

"I chose to learn both," Asa replied. "I could already read and speak both my own tongue and the common one, and I knew that there were some subtleties lost in translation between the two. So I made the effort to learn Qunlat in it's original form."

He gave a slight lift of his shoulders. "It is an elegant language, and pleasing to the eye."

Shepard rested her chin on her palm. "I admit I was surprised to find that your philosophy is couched almost poetically. It reads like verse."

Asa's scarred face looked pleased. "You have read the Qun?"

"Yeah. Although I don't think you really digest it the first time through. You sort of have to go back and read it a bit at a time and think about it."

She looked down at the book Asa still held open in front of her. She touched one of the well-worn pages gently. "It looks like this is a favorite," she noted.

"Prayers for the Dead," Asa murmured.

Shepard's brows rose. "That sounds almost religious."

"Not exactly," Asa answered. "It is… difficult to explain."

Shepard traced a finger over the passage written in vulgar. "What does it say?" She shifted a little, frowning. "I mean, I can at least sort of read the words, but what do they translate to?"

Asa glanced once at the page before quoting softly, his eyes on Shepard's face.

_ "Struggle is an illusion. _

_The tide rises, the tide falls, but the sea is changeless. _

_There is nothing to struggle against. _

_Victory is in the Qun."_

Shepard's nose wrinkled. "You know, the first part of that actually sounds deep and meaningful. And then you come to the end and it suddenly becomes militaristic."

Asa gave her an unreadable look. "Perhaps your perception of the language is colored by your role," he suggested. "You may see things differently, in time."

Shepard rolled her eyes and snorted sharply. "Don't give me that bullshit. I'm not one of your converts, and I have no intention of becoming one."

"Does the thought frighten you that much?"

"Frighten me?" scoffed Shepard.

Asa's face was placid. "Yes. Your aggressive reaction suggests fear."

Shepard opened her mouth to respond, and then closed it thoughtfully.

_Maybe now is not the best time to fly off the handle, hmmm, Shepard? Why don't you try _thinking _instead of_ reacting?

For a moment, she drummed her fingers on the tabletop while she considered the healer's words.

"I apologize," she said slowly, realizing that this was twice now she'd been backed down in the past few hours. "I suppose I do have a kind of knee-jerk reaction to some things." It was a grudging admission, but an admission nonetheless.

She took a deep breath. "I… take exception to things that deny people the freedom to choose their own path."

Asa raised an eyebrow. "I doubt you truly believe that all should be free to do as they wish. Even bas circumscribe their lives with restrictions - customs, tradition, laws…"

Shepard's eyes rolled again. "Okay, yes. _Within reason_, I suppose I should have said. Clearly, I'm not going to advocate for someone's right to go around killing indiscriminately, for instance. But people _should_ be able to make choices for themselves; where they live, what they do for a living, who they love, their beliefs… And, as long as it doesn't harm or interfere with anyone else's ability to do so, I think people should be free to pursue their dreams, no matter how _impractical_ or _inefficient_ that dream might be."

"And when the pursuit of a dream leads only to misery or suffering?" Asa retorted, but without heat. "What then?"

Shepard sighed. "Then you get tragedy, I suppose. Life isn't all sunshine and bunnies."

"And as the individual is part of the whole, when there is suffering in the individual, there is weakness in the whole," said the healer, resting his hands on the table and leaning forward, his hazel eyes bright.

Shepard shook her head mutely.

"You don't agree?" Asa asked.

"It isn't… look, I've heard that argument before. Putting the good of the whole before the good of the individual? I get that."

She laughed hollowly. "Hell, Asa, you won't find _anyone_ who gets that _better_ than I do. But there's got to be balance. There's _got_ to be. Otherwise, we might as well all be machines."

The healer looked startled by the tense passion in her voice, and he gave her a very long, very thoughtful look.

"You are a very… _interesting_… woman, Shepard," he said finally. "I begin to understand the Arishok's… curiosity."

"You make it sound like I've got two heads, or something," Shepard complained.

Asa laughed. "I think he would find that less surprising."

She snorted. "Because I don't fit his expectations of what a woman should be? Because I'm female, and a soldier, and I'm _good_ at it?"

"You perplex him, and he is not a man who is easily perplexed."

"Good for me, then."

Shepard glanced over at the pile the healer had made on the edge of the table. "What are all these?"

Asa followed her gaze and stepped over to the corner. "A few of these are treatises written by bas about us. Not a lot of accuracy, but I thought you might appreciate an _unbiased_ view of the Qun." He shot her a sly glance through dropped eyelids.

She acknowledged the slight barb with a twitch of her lips, and the healer continued. "A few others were penned by viddathari - some of my former countrymen, in fact."

He touched a scroll. "We hardly have the resources of the libraries of Qunandar here. This is the only information the Arishok can offer on the study of the heavens apart from the purely practical navigational charts." Asa gave her an apologetic look.

"To be honest," replied Shepard, "I'm surprised you have any written documents from your homeland at all. I'd heard that your people were shipwrecked here a few years ago, and I can't imagine that books were first into the lifeboats. I'm amazed you were able to salvage anything at all."

Asa gave a slight shake of his head. "We were carrying very little, and of what we carried we saved next to nothing. Most of these," he jerked his chin to indicate the shelves, "have been collected since our arrival."

Shepard thought of the slender volume locked in the chest in her bedroom. "But not all."

"No. Not all."

Abandoning the nav charts for the moment, Shepard reached for the other scroll. As she did so, she became acutely aware of Asa's eyes on her.

"What is it now?" she asked wryly. "Have I started to grow a third head?"

The healer frowned. "No," he replied. "It's… the wounds on your face. What were they caused by?"

Once again, Shepard found her fingers drifting up to touch her cheek. "Varric called it an ogre, I think."

"I haven't seen injuries like them before," he said, curiosity in his voice.

Shepard gave a weary huff. "And you won't," she told him. "They look the way they do because of _me_, not because of what caused them."

Asa's face creased in a puzzled frown. "I don't understand," he complained.

"I was…" _spaced_ "…very badly injured a few years ago." _Damn_ was she tired of trying to explain the inexplicable to people. "In order to…" _bring me back from the dead_ "…repair the damage, the doctors had to use implants - things made of metal and plastics."

"Like pinning a broken bone?" the healer questioned.

Shepard looked surprised. "Similar, yes," she agreed. "But more advanced."

"Anyway," she went on, "for whatever reason - maybe because the skin on my face is thinner than anywhere else - I tend not to heal facial injuries very well. These," she gestured to her cheek, "will probably be around for a while. What you're seeing is the underlying implants. That's why it looks so odd."

"May I?" Asa inquired politely, holding out one hand.

"Go ahead," Shepard acquiesced with a tired little sigh.

The healer's nimble fingers traced the wounds gently, his eyes peering intently at the gouges as he prodded with a light touch.

While he investigated her face, Shepard closed her eyes and said, "So you use orthopedic implants to repair broken bones? I didn't think anyone had that kind of knowledge here in Thedas. They seem to rely so much on magic…"

Asa made a noise between a grunt and a snort. "It is common practice in Par Vollen and Seheron and Kont-aar. As you say, we don't rely sarebaas the same way the bas do. The danger is too great."

Shepard ground her teeth, causing the healer to jerk his fingers back sharply. "Did I hurt you?"

"No," Shepard grated. "But I think we should probably stop this conversation right here. I'd prefer to keep things civil."

Asa tilted his head to one side. "You really _don't_ fear magic, do you?" he asked.

"Asa," Shepard's voice held a hint of warning. "I said I don't want to get into this with you."

He held up a hand. "I understand," he said, backing off several paces to lean against the bookshelf.

Shepard picked up the new scroll and began unrolling it.

"People in Rivain also see magic differently," Asa said, after a few minutes' silence. "The Rivaini live much closer to magic than the rest of Thedas." His voice was very quiet, so quiet he could be speaking to himself. "I grew up believing that the seers were simply a part of the order of things."

"Maybe you should ask yourself why you changed your mind."

"Perhaps," the healer allowed. "You have an odd way of making one look at things differently, Shepard."

Shepard smiled tightly. "You're welcome."

Asa's face was troubled. "I didn't say it was a _good_ thing."

* * *

_A/N: This is probably going to be more like a half-chapter, I think. But things have gotten rough the last several days between life, school, and my brain, and so I'm back to my old habits of updating as I can rather than waiting to finish out a chapter. I don't know which is better or worse, to tell you the truth. _

_In any event, here. Stuff._

_*****courtesy of Terry Pratchett's_ The Fifth Elephant.


	23. Chapter 22

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

"Have I ever told you," Shepard grunted, pulling her omni-blade free of the creature's swollen abdomen, "how much I hate spiders?"

"In detail," replied Varric, "about fifteen minutes ago, when we first entered the mine."

Hawke laughed. "He's right," she said lightly. "But don't let that stop you from telling us again."

Shepard scowled. "I hate spiders," she ground out. "A lot."

"It's the eyes, isn't it?" Merrill asked. "There's just too many of them. And they're all staring at you." She frowned slightly. "At least I think they're all staring at me," she amended. "It's hard to tell, really."

"You sound like you're describing a batarian," Shepard grumbled. "I remember someone once telling me that they never knew what pair of eyes they should be looking at."

"Are batarians a kind of spider?" Merrill asked curiously. "Are they the little ones with all the fur?"

Shepard laughed. "No. They're a bipedal, warm-blooded, hairless, sentient humanoid species with two pair of eyes and universally bad attitudes."

"They sound delightful," Hawke quipped.

"Oh." Merrill sounded disappointed. "I don't mind the little furry spiders. They're kind of cute."

"Good to know, Daisy," said Varric lazily. "How do you feel about darkspawn?

Merrill shook her head vehemently. "Darkspawn aren't cute," she said fervently. "And they smell terrible."

"Bandits? Slavers? Dragons?… No, don't answer the last one."

"Why are you asking, Varric?" Merrill questioned, her head tilted to one side. "You know I don't like bandits or slavers. Although dragons…"

Varric shook his head. "I told you not to answer that, Daisy. Given your feeling about griffins, I think I can already guess."

"So… why?"

The dwarf shrugged. "I wondered if you had a secret urge to cuddle _all_ of our enemies, or just a few in specific."

"Not _cuddle_ exactly," Merrill argued defensively. She was silent for a moment; the silence of a potentially unpleasant confession looming in the immediate future. "But," she all but whispered, "sometimes I just want to scratch the qunari behind their horns. You know, the way you would for a halla? They really like that. I think that horns must be itchy."

Shepard was suddenly assaulted by the mental image of the elven girl scratching the Arishok behind his horns like he was some oversize lapdog. She burst into laughter.

"I don't think that would be a good idea, Daisy," Varric said solemnly.

"Oh, I know," Merrill said hastily. Her eyes were slightly wistful. "I just can't help thinking about it, though."

Hawke's expression grew sly. "Maybe Shepard could give it a try and let you know how it goes."

"Me?" Shepard exclaimed. "Why me?" she asked pointedly.

"You're the resident qunari charmer, remember?" Hawke gave her a wide-eyed grin. "The Arishok likes you."

"I'm not even on a last-name basis with him," Shepard protested. "Unlike you," she added.

"The Arishok has a last name?" Hawke feigned surprise.

Shepard snorted. "He calls you _Hawke_. I'm still _basra_, which I think means _annoying human_."

Varric clucked his tongue. "Is somebody jealous?"

"Merely stating a fact," Shepard replied icily.

"Yep. _Jealous_."

"Shut up, dwarf," warned the Spectre. "Or else I'll tell Bianca about your little fling with Sebastian's longbow."

"What?!" exclaimed Varric. "I only…" he bit back the words. "Don't listen to her, baby," he crooned over his shoulder, shooting Shepard a dirty look.

Anything anyone was going to add to the conversation was halted when another pony-sized spider dropped from the shadows of the ceiling on a line of spider silk as thick as a man's thumb.

Shepard hit it with an incendiary blast, backpedaling as a second and third descended after it. She grabbed Garrus, not bothering to do more than nestle the stock against her shoulder before squeezing the trigger. At this range, center mass was good enough, punching through the chitinous exoskeleton of the smallest spider easily and sending a spray of hemolymph over the cavern floor.

The uninjured spider had swarmed Varric, and the dwarf was buried under a twitching abdomen and flailing legs.

"Hawke!" Shepard shouted, motioning toward the overwhelmed dwarf.

Merrill did… something… that caused a ripple of stone to fly out from where she stood, catching the spider Shepard had set alight with the force of an avalanche. It collapsed, legs reflexively curling inward as it died.

Hawke was vainly trying to either kill or at least distract the final spider from its attack on Varric, while the arachnid seemed single-mindedly intent on the dwarf. Shepard couldn't take a shot, not with Hawke in such close proximity. Nor was she willing to risk a blast with both allies well within the splash of burning plasma.

With her teeth bared in a feral grimace, Hawke reversed her grip on her daggers and drove them into either side of the spider's abdomen up to the hilt. The spider spun, ripping the weapons out of the rogue's hands.

Hawke didn't hesitate. She balled up one fist and smashed it into the arachnid's cluster of eyes.

The spider's pedipalps waved furiously, and it reared up, frontmost legs trying to pin Hawke to the ground. The rogue rolled and pivoted, reaching for hidden knives in her boots as the angry, wounded creature charged after her.

Shepard took a bead, and put a bullet in its head.

There was no time for a breath, let alone to take stock of Varric's injuries, before a truly monstrous spider squeezed through a crack in the wall of the cavern. Shepard stared at it in shock, unable to process how something so large wouldn't simply be crushed under the weight of its own exoskeleton.

_That thing's bigger than a Mako. Hell, it's bigger than a fucking gunship._

Shepard cloaked, and half-ran, half-scrambled up the tumbled rock wall of the cavern, dropping prone and resting the barrel of her rifle on the crook of her left elbow as she lined up on one of the giant arachnid's eyes.

Exhale. Fire.

The monster recoiled slightly, but was clearly much tougher than its smaller cousins. Shepard impatiently counted her heartbeat while the rifle cooled, watching Hawke dive between the thing's legs to attack it's abdomen. The rogue was still using her back up knives, which seemed to do little damage to the massive arachnid's thick exoskeleton.

With a hoarse shout, Merrill leveled her staff at the creature, and the earth seemed to grow up around the spider, wrapping itself around the eight legs and creeping out over its body.

"Shoot it, Shepard!" yelled Hawke, renewing her attack with vigor. "It's brittle!"

The powerful rifle roared in answer, small cracks radiating out from an impact crater in the creature's petrified abdomen. To Hawke's obvious disappointment, however, the cracks dissipated as the tendrils of stone withdrew and the spider began to move once more, clearly wounded and enraged.

Hawke flipped backwards, putting some distance between herself and the arachnid's heaving abdomen. The spider assisted matters by making a charge at Merrill, somehow sensing that the elven mage was a more obvious threat than the rogue. Hawke took a deep breath, set herself momentarily, and then sprinted for the huge spider, leaping into the air to land on its back, thrusting a knife into its exoskeleton when it seemed she would be thrown off by the spider's movements. She fought and clawed her way further up the thing's back as it swept a leg out and sent Merrill sprawling.

Shepard felt her lips curl into a grin. _Crazy. Brilliant, but absolutely fucking crazy_.

She sighted again on the rounded orb of one of the spider's larger eyes and fired, splattering Hawke with whatever passed for arachnid vitreous humor as the rogue struggled to keep her balance, earning herself a shout and rude hand gesture waved in her vague direction.

Hawke positioned herself where the eight gigantic legs joined the spider's body, raising one of her knives high above her head in both hands and bringing it down with all of her strength.

For the first time, the spider seemed to recognize the danger of the small human on its back. It tried to bring one pair of hind-facing legs up in a sweeping motion to dislodge the rogue, but couldn't reach her. Then it tried with a forward pair. Hawke ducked and dodged them, working the blade back and forth in the thing's back. She reached into one belt pouch with quick fingers, withdrawing a small vial that she brought down hard against the hilt of the blade, shattering it and releasing a spill of oily poison over the knife.

Through the scope, Shepard watched as the fluid seeped along the steel and into the open wound on the spider's back. As it made contact, the creature went crazy, hopping and bucking for all the world like a mechanical rodeo bull with eight extra legs.

Merrill managed to scramble to her feet and hurled a bright ball of magic directly into its face.

Injured beyond its capacity for fight, the spider attempted to flee, making for a crack in the wall just below and to Shepard's right. Shepard took careful aim on the larger of the two ruined eyes, fighting to keep Garrus steady as she tracked the spider's movements until she was sure of her shot.

The creature made an almost comical nosedive as the slug hammered through the back of the eye cavity. Hawke leapt clear of the spider as it writhed and flailed in its death throes, skidding on the stone but managing to stay upright.

Shepard rose to her knees and swept the scope around the cavern and its ceiling, verifying that all hostiles were accounted for.

"Clear!" she called, tucking Garrus into place on her backplate.

Merrill, chest heaving with exertion and adrenaline, rushed to where Varric still lay unmoving. Hawke's eyes were on the elf as she thrust one gloved hand between the toes of her boots - pulling off her poison-soaked gauntlets, Shepard realized.

"Varric," pleaded the elf breathlessly, "stop teasing. Wake up."

Shepard dropped quickly to the floor of the cavern as Hawke struggled with her second gauntlet, the Spectre pelting across the space that separated her from the fallen dwarf, calling up her omni-tool as she ran.

The moment her final gauntlet was free, Hawke followed, her face paler than Shepard had ever seen it.

Varric was still breathing, but it was labored. His heart rate, on the other hand, was elevated, the beats weak and thready.

"Shit," swore Shepard.

"How bad?" Hawke's voice sounded oddly strained.

"Bad," Shepard confirmed. "Merrill, can you heal people, like Anders can?"

Merrill turned her face to Shepard, and the Spectre was surprised to see the tracks of tears in the grime on the elven girl's face. "Not like Anders. He… he's good at it. I… I can't… I just make mistakes."

"Merrill," said Hawke firmly. "You have to try." The rogue caught Shepard's eye, and the tiny nod the Spectre gave her. "Varric's life may depend on it."

"Can't we… don't we have any elfroot potions? Won't that help him?" the mage begged.

"He's been poisoned, Merrill," Shepard told her quietly. "The spider's venom is in his blood, and it's killing him. We need you to do whatever you can to stabilize him, so we can get him back to Kirkwall."

Hawke had sunk to her knees beside Varric's head, cradling it gently so that she could pour one of the healing elixirs tiny trickle by tiny trickle past his slack lips.

Merrill wrung her hands, her eyes anguished. "I… I'll try."

Biting her lower lip for a moment, the elven mage closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Then, with a speed that shocked Shepard and made her hand reflexively drop to a pistol that wasn't there, Merrill drew a tiny knife from her belt and slashed it across the palm of her hand.

The energy that bloomed from her blood made the hairs stand up on the back of Shepard's neck, but as it flowed outward and sunk into the poisoned dwarf's inert form, her omni-tool pinged with updated information - Varric's erratic vitals were leveling a little.

"Merrill," Hawke's voice was cold and stern.

"I'm sorry, Hawke," the mage replied in a stricken voice. "I just… needed it to work."

Shepard glanced from one to the other of them, unsure of what had just transpired. But there were larger concerns, so she ignored both other women for the moment, carefully slinging Varric into a fireman's carry across her shoulders.

"Let's move out," she ordered.

Shepard pushed herself into a shuffling jog, trying not to jostle the dwarf too much but knowing that speed was of the essence. "Hawke," she panted slightly. "Run ahead. See if the miners have a cart and a horse. Or a just a horse… anything that will help us get Varric to Anders _fast_."

All laughter and joy bled out of her, Hawke managed a nod. She reached into a belt pouch and pressed something into Merrill's hands before sprinting off into the dimness of the mines.

Shepard and Merrill jogged on in silence for a while. When she heard her omni-tool ping another change in the dwarf's condition, Shepard pushed herself faster, her breath coming hard.

_Who knew the little bastard would be so heavy?_

As she so often did, Shepard reached deep for the reserves of strength granted by both her training and Cerberus' cybernetics.

_Keep going. It's just exhaustion. It doesn't _matter. _Time to rest when you're dead. _

_Again._

"Shepard, stop." Surprisingly, Merrill's voice sounded authoritative. Shepard slowed, and half turned toward the mage.

"Merrill…" Shepard gasped, "we need to keep going."

"We will. But you need to drink this first." Merrill was holding out an opened vial.

"Merrill…"

"Please, Shepard. It will help."

Shepard shifted Varric's weight on her shoulders and held out a hand. Merrill obligingly pressed the vial into it and watched as Shepard knocked back the contents in between chuffs for air.

The liquid simultaneously burned and froze all the way down to her gut. Shepard coughed, tears springing into the corners of her eyes, but turned and forced herself back into a shambling run. As she moved, it felt as though the burning cold was coursing like quicksilver through her veins, bringing with it a surge of energy.

_Adrenaline. Some sort of stim. Dear god, I could _kiss_ Merrill right now._

The light began to get brighter, the stifling air of the mines moving sluggishly and carrying hints of the only slightly less rancid air of the miner's encampment. Shepard sped up again, her boots pounding against the dirt and rock. Her shoulders and back were on fire, and her gut churned when her omni-tool pinged again.

_Shit. The mine is about an hour away from Kirkwall on foot. If Hawke hasn't found a horse, we'll lose him._

In her mind loomed the smooth blackness and silver block lettering of Normandy's memorial wall. _Ashley Williams. Charles Pressly. Mordin Solus. Legion._

_Thane Krios…_

Against all odds and reason, Shepard found another gear. Hell, no. She'd lost so many, _fuck_ if she was going to lose another. Even if he wasn't _technically_ one of hers…

Shepard burst out into the sunlight, squinting against the blinding brightness. Her feet slid in the gravel as the path took a sudden downward turn into the mining camp - she would have fallen on her ass if Merrill's hands hadn't caught against her back, stabilizing her.

"Shepard!" It was Hawke's voice, loud and urgent to her right. At the edge of the camp, already facing down the road they'd traveled up from Kirkwall, was a wooden wagon, with a pair of thick-set horses harnessed to it. They looked less built for speed than for raw power, but Shepard knew for a fact they'd make better time to the city than she would.

Hawke stood in the bed of the wagon, her arms outstretched and hands grasping for Varric's heavy leather coat almost before Shepard reached the tailgate. A raw-boned man with a lantern jaw was sitting on an elevated seat at the front of the wagon, his hands full of leather reins. As soon as the dwarf's weight left her, Shepard heaved herself on board, eyeing Merrill sourly as the elf vaulted lightly beside her.

"Go!" croaked Shepard, falling back against the rough wood and fighting for air. "Go."

**-ooo-**

The wagon ride back to Kirkwall was not something Shepard ever wanted to relive. She supposed that she now knew how Garrus had felt every time she was behind the controls of the Mako. Except that, unlike the wagon, the Mako didn't seem intent on shaking itself to pieces with every revolution of its six wheels.

"Get to Anders clinic," Hawke had instructed Merrill as the sweating horses were pulled up outside Kirkwall's landward gates. "Tell him to meet us at the estate." She was holding the dwarf's body against her own, trying to cushion it from the worst of the rough ride. She'd transferred Bianca to her own back, and her face was drawn, nearly as ashen as Varric's own.

Varric's heart was barely beating, and his breathing was practically non-existent. Merrill had performed another emergency healing during the trip back to Kirkwall, and the look that Hawke had given her when the mage had once again used a knife to draw her own blood was ugly.

Shepard longed to start CPR, but there was no way to get the dwarf into the city and work on him at the same time - horses weren't allowed past the gates. So instead she downed another draught of Hawke's stim elixir and reached for the comatose dwarf.

Hawke relinquished her grip reluctantly. "Are you sure you can make it?" she worried.

Shepard grunted. "Trust me, I've done this before."

She adjusted the dwarf's weight more evenly, and once again was off at a run. Perhaps one good thing about Varric thumping across her shoulders like a side of beef with every stride she took - it was certainly providing chest compression.

They garnered a lot of strange looks as they ran through the city. Hawke loped easily before Shepard, clearing the way for the Spectre and her burden. Usually people got out of her way quickly, but the rogue was not above shoving and throwing shoulder checks for those slower in mind or body. Shepard lumbered along in her wake, trying her best not to think beyond the swing of her stride and the sweet rush of adrenaline that kept her moving.

Hawke's estate, located as it was in such close proximity to the two most important buildings in Kirkwall - the Keep and the Chantry - was at the very top of Hightown. Shepard clenched her jaw and powered up the last stairwell, her breath whistling raggedly through her teeth.

"Serah Hawke!" The voice sounded familiar, and as the man flattened himself against the stairwell to allow Hawke to push past him, Shepard recognized Aveline's guardsman lover.

"Not now, Donnic," Hawke snapped.

Undeterred, Donnic glanced once at the inert form on Shepard's shoulders and fell in behind Hawke, "The gate guards sent a runner to the Keep. The Captain sent me to see what was amiss."

"Varric's hurt," Hawke's voice was sharper than Shepard had ever heard it. "Poisoned."

The guard glanced over his shoulder again. "Is there… can I help?"

"Shepard?"

"Keep… going…" Shepard forced out.

"Just keep people out of my way," Hawke growled.

Donnic nodded, though the rogue wasn't looking at him, and as soon as they were free of the stairwell, he moved ahead of her, calling out for people to clear the way in an authoritative voice. The usual Hightown crowds melted aside for the guard, though Shepard could hear a lot of murmuring and shuffling as they filled back in behind her.

And, finally, there was the Hawke mansion. Hawke sprinted ahead, yelling for Bodahn to open the blasted door.

"Upstairs," Hawke instructed, as Shepard, swinging her body sideways, eased she and Varric through the doorway.

The adrenaline was gone. Now all that Shepard had was fire and pain and the kind of will that always got her back on her feet to face impossible odds.

She staggered up the stairs and into Hawke's bedroom, opening the door by the simple expedient of kicking it until the latch and the wooden jamb around it gave, and slid Varric off her shoulders and onto the bed. Despite the screaming protest of every muscle in her body, she crawled up next to the dwarf and set her right palm against his chest, placing her left atop it and lacing her fingers. Sweat dripped from her face and hair, pattering against Varric's body as she began compressions.

"What are you…?" Hawke began, from the doorway.

"His heart… " panted Shepard. "Manual… compression…"

Hawke may not have fully understood what Shepard was trying to say, but she was smart enough to trust that the Spectre knew what she was doing. "Show me," she said, moving to Shepard's side with the kind of speed she usually reserved for fighting.

"Hands…" Shepard flexed her fingers to draw Hawke's attention, without interrupting the rhythm of her motions. Hawke frowned, clasping her hands together in imitation of Shepard's. "Just here." The exhausted Spectre nodded to where her hands pressed into the dwarf's sternum, slightly above the xyphoid process.

Hawke hovered her joined hands over Shepards. "Lock… elbows - use body weight." Shepard pulled her hands away, and Hawke's replaced them, the rogue leaning over the dwarf's body. Shepard slumped to the side, but reached her hand out to lay against Hawke's shoulder. "Rhythm…" She tapped her finger against the rogue's armor, not subsiding until Hawke's compressions matched the motion of her digit.

Anders arrived a few minutes later, flushed and breathless from his mad dash from the bowels of the city. He didn't pause to catch his breath, lifting his hands as he came through the door, calling upon the healing energy that was his to control.

Slowly, Varric's chest began to rise and fall on its own, color beginning to return to his lips and cheeks just as it bled from Anders'.

When the healer began to flag, Hawke uncorked a vial with her teeth and handed it to him. Anders downed the lyrium-filled liquid and continued his task, only stopping when the dwarf stirred slightly. The mage staggered as he turned away, groping blindly for the wardrobe to stay upright.

"Sweet Andraste," he gasped. "What in the void happened to him? It was all I could do…"

Hawke had a deathgrip on the dwarf's hand. "Spiders," she said. "Is he…?"

Shepard wearily lifted her left forearm to eye level. "His vital signs are stable. There's still toxin in his bloodstream."

"Spiders?" Anders looked surprised. "I've healed… _everyone_… for spider envenomation in the past. It's never been this difficult."

"Complications," Shepard sighed. "We were at the mines outside the city when it happened. It was probably ten or fifteen minutes before Merrill was able to stabilize him, another fifteen or twenty before we were able to get him out of the mine, and probably forty or forty-five to get him here." She groaned at the memory. "Not to mention, the spider that attacked him was really intent on finishing the job. He was probably injected multiple times."

Anders took a deep breath. "Your friend Tomwise might have something that will help Varric's recovery," he said to Hawke. "He's… suspiciously well versed in antidotes."

"Good poison makers generally are," Hawke said distantly. "Send Bodahn. I'm not leaving." She shot the healer a pointed look. "And neither are you, until Varric's awake again and bitching for ale."

There was sympathy in Anders' warm hazel eyes. "I wouldn't dream of it," he said softly.

"Hawke," said Shepard. "You do realize you're still covered in spider… ooze. And there's probably poison on your boots."

Hawke's lips firmed. "I'm not leaving him, Shepard."

"His breathing, heart rate, and oxsat are stable. You can take five minutes to get cleaned up and changed," Shepard assured her, wondering just when she'd turned into Karin Chakwas.

"Anders will be back in a minute, and I'll be here," she added. _Not that I could move if I wanted to…_ "He won't be alone."

Hawke gave Shepard a scowl, biting at her lower lip in indecision.

"Fine," she snapped. "But if anything changes…"

Shepard remembered Chakwas threatening to have her physically removed from the med bay when Shepard had refused to leave Garrus's side after they'd brought him in from Omega. She'd been an emotional wreck, covered with the bright blue of turian blood, convinced that she would lose Garrus if she left his side. The relief, the sheer, bloody _relief_ she'd felt when Archangel had removed his helmet to reveal those familiar features and blue colony paint, only to face losing him so soon after…

Yeah, Shepard thought she knew what must be going through Hawke's mind.

"I'll let you know."

Hawke clambered slowly off the bed, keeping her eyes on Varric while she rummaged through the wardrobe. She was still shooting looks over her shoulder as she disappeared into the bathing chamber.

Shepard forced herself to the edge of the bed and from there, to her feet. She walked unsteadily around the foot of the bed to Varric's side, wrapping her hands around the heel and arch of his left boot.

She grunted as her muscles shrieked at her, tugging until the boot came off and dropping it unceremoniously on the floor.

Anders' hands came to rest on her shoulders. She hadn't even heard the healer re-enter the room. "Let me help," he insisted, taking hold of the other boot.

Gratefully, Shepard subsided, leaning heavily against the bed post.

"Donnic says you carried the dwarf all the way from the city gate," he said, giving her an appraising look. "You never fail to amaze me, Shepard."

"Something I learned in N-school. Never let your body know its limitations," she replied, pushing off of the post to help the healer remove Varric's heavy coat. "You'll pay for it later, of course. Nothing's free. But the important thing is… it'll be later. _Always_ later."

Anders' eyebrow quirked. "Like now, for instance," he guessed shrewdly.

She nodded ruefully. "It does seem like _later_ is bleeding its way into _now_."

The healer's long fingers deftly picked at the knotted sash at the dwarf's waist. "How did you convince Hawke to leave the room?"

"I'm right here, you bastard," growled the rogue, coming out of the bathing chamber. Her rich red hair was damp, and the dirt and spider innards had been removed from her skin. She was wearing a clean tunic and a short kilt.

"Good," Anders replied. "You can help me finish undressing Varric while Shepard takes a long soak. Do you still have that muscle salt I mixed up?" He held up a hand before either woman could open her mouth. "Healer's orders, Shepard."

"It's in a blue glass jar with a metal clasp," Hawke told Shepard, taking the Spectre's place beside Anders. "I barely touched the boiler, so it should be full for you."

Shepard opened her mouth, but Anders cut her off. "_Shepard…_"

And really, what was there to argue? Yes, Shepard was dying to get back to her apartment and fall into bed, but falling into a shower - or bath, in this case - first sounded mighty fine.

Without a word, Shepard retreated to the bathing chamber, fingers already fumbling for her armor seals.

**-ooo-**

Shepard woke with a start and a splash.

The water around her was not totally cold, so she couldn't have been asleep very long, and there was a hand on her shoulder, which was what had woken her.

"I didn't mean to startle you," Anders said softly. "But I could hear you snoring and figured I should get you out of the water before you accidentally drowned."

"Mmmnn, than…" A yawn cut off Shepard's thanks.

"Hawke had Orana make up some soup for Varric and a rather more substantial meal for the rest of us. It should be ready soon."

"I should get back to the alienage," Shepard protested, levering herself stiffly to her feet. "All I want to do is sleep for a week."

"Which is why you're staying here for supper," the healer said firmly. "You pushed yourself hard, and you need to replenish your body's resources." He handed her one of Hawke's scratchy towels. "Don't think I haven't been around you long enough to notice how quickly you burn fuel," he added in a low voice. "The only other people I know who require that much food are all Wardens."

Shepard finished drying her body and rubbed the damp towel through her hair. "It's the implants," she admitted. "They're useful, but they take a lot of energy."

Anders produced a small earthen jar. "Muscle balm," he explained as he handed it over. "A woman named Elegant makes it. I haven't been able to charm the recipe out of her, sadly. It's far better than the one I used to make in Amaranthine."

"Thanks," Shepard looked up in surprise, and met the healer's eyes. "You're a good man, Anders."

He gave her a small, pleased smile. "That… actually means something, coming from you."

Something seemed to occur to him, and he leaned one shoulder against the wall of the bathing chamber, crossing his arms on his chest. "Speaking of which," his smile widened a little, "I have to say you seem awfully comfortable completely starkers with a man in the room."

Shepard was sniffing at the oily balm in the jar. It smelled of cloves and cinnamon and other spices she couldn't put a name to.

"I'm sure you've seen it all before," she said dismissively.

"Oh, I have," he assured her. "But I wasn't talking about _my_ complete comfort in front of a naked woman. That stands to reason."

Shepard dipped her fingers into the jar and scooped out a healthy dollop, which she gingerly began rubbing into one of her quadriceps. "I'm a soldier, Anders," she reminded him. "You get used to having no privacy from the moment you hit basic." Warmth began spreading across her skin from the point of contact with the balm, seeping deep into her muscle fibers.

"You're also completely unattracted to me," he pointed out. "I'm sure that helps."

Shepard glanced over her shoulder at him. "Actually, I think you're very good looking," she said.

The smile widened again. "Well, of course. But still, you're sadly unattracted."

Shepard moved on to her other leg. The warmth was almost an uncomfortable burning on her skin itself, but wonderfully soothing to the muscle beneath.

"And you're heartbroken, I can tell," Shepard said sarcastically.

"Crushed," the healer agreed.

"Is this where I tell you that it's not you, it's me? That I'm still not over my lost love?" Shepard meant it to come out as a light quip, but the words dropped like lead.

Anders pushed himself off the wall. "Shepard," he said, concern edging his voice, "I'm sorry. I was joking. I didn't mean to…"

Shepard gave a short shake of her head. "Not your fault," she said, staring at her left knee.

"Here," she continued after a moment, thrusting the jar back over her shoulder. "Get my shoulders, would you?"

Anders took the jar from her silently, loading his fingers with balm and handing it back. As he rubbed it into her skin, he chuckled.

"What is it now?" Shepard was pleased when her voice bore only the lighthearted exasperation she intended.

"Isabela will probably knock me on my ass if she finds out about this," he said.

Shepard face frowned while her body melted against the healer's touch, although, as he pointed out, not from any particular attraction. "Why would she do that?"

"Surely you know by now that Isabela is _very interested_. She's not subtle."

"Well… yes, of course. But she doesn't strike me as the jealous type. More the _any port in a storm_ type…"

"True enough," Anders admitted. "It wouldn't be out of jealousy. Try _frustration_. She's half convinced herself that we've all had our way with you."

Shepard laughed tiredly. "Except Griffon, I hope," she protested.

"Oh, no. Perhaps not Merrill, or Aveline, but _most definitely_ Griffon."

"Don't make me hit you," Shepard threatened.

Anders pressed his fingers deeper into Shepard's sore shoulders, eliciting a groan that was half pain, half pleasure from the Spectre. "I'd like to see you try," he murmured.

Unfortunately, while he knew that Shepard - despite finding him good looking - was not interested, he himself… Well, it had been a long time since he'd been this close to a naked woman in any capacity other than as a healer. And while his mind was firmly convinced that this _was_ in his capacity as a healer, his body believed otherwise.

Damn it, where was Justice when he needed him?

He gave a final rub and pulled his fingers back, quickly moving away to wash the oily residue from his hands - and not so coincidentally turning his back to Shepard. "Hawke left you some clothes there, on the bench," he said crisply, trying to forget the feeling of smooth skin and firm muscle under his fingers.

Shepard rolled her head from side to side, and then her shoulders, finally stretching her body from toes to fingertips. She was so engrossed in the pull of her muscles that she failed to notice Anders glance once at her and hurry from the room as if a demon was nipping at his heels.

She shook out the clothes and put them on slowly, bundling up her sweat-soaked underwear in her skinsuit and dropping it in the corner of the bathing chamber, next to the pieces of her hardsuit. She'd see about borrowing a basket or something to cart it all home in.

When she stepped out of the bathing chamber, she found that Anders and Hawke had managed to strip Varric down to his unmentionables and clean the worst of the blood and dirt from his skin. The soiled eiderdown had also been removed, and the dwarf now lay under a sheet and a light blanket. Several - Shepard could count at least five - large purple bruises marred his neck, shoulder, and chest; marking where the spider's fangs had pierced his flesh.

Varric's color looked good, though, and his chest rose and fell regularly with his breathing. Shepard finished fastening her omni-tool to her wrist and scanned the dwarf quickly, nodding at the results.

"He's much better already," she said with satisfaction. "We got him here in time."

"I've failed so many people," Hawke said quietly. "My father, my brother, my sister…" She sat on a padded chair pulled close to the bed, her hand rubbing Varric's forearm lightly. "I couldn't bear to fail him, too."

"I understand," Shepard told her.

"I know," Hawke said simply. "That's why I'm saying it to you." She looked away from the dwarf, up into Shepard's eyes. "I owe you for this, Shepard. More than I can possibly repay."

"I like him too, Hawke," Shepard answered. "And I wasn't going to fail him, either."

Hawke lapsed into silence for a moment, her brow drawing downward.

"What did you say to Anders, anyway?" she asked after a moment. "He ran out of here like his ass was on fire."

"Don't look at me," Shepard held up both hands defensively. "Evidently, he fears the pirate queen's sexual frustration."

There was a groan from the dwarf. "Don't we all," he rasped.

"Varric!" It was a chorus of joy and relief.

"I'd make some comment about my irresistibleness, but right now all I can think is _what the hell was I drinking_?"

Shepard gave him a smile. "Here's a hint: it's worse than The Hanged Man's whiskey."

"That goes without saying." Varric tried to shift himself and groaned. "I haven't felt this bad in… well, I don't think I've ever felt this bad."

Hawke's green eyes bored into him as if she was afraid he was going to grow wings and fly away or something.

"One of the spiders in the mine," she explained. "Anders thinks you were bitten about six times. You…" her voice wavered slightly. "You took a lot of venom."

"That explains the way I feel," Varric assented. "But not why I appear to be in your bedroom."

"It was closer to the landward gate than The Hanged Man," Hawke explained. "Also cleaner, more private, and somewhere I could keep an eye on you."

Shepard motioned to the door. "I'll go find Anders and tell him his patient is awake," she said, suiting deed to word and leaving the two rogues alone together.

Varric sighed. "Tell me the rest of it," he said, watching Shepard's retreating back through the open doorway.

"What rest of it?" Hawke opened her eyes wide.

"Hawke," the dwarf chided gently, "I've known you for a long time. The last time I saw you this upset was just after Sunshine was taken to the Circle."

"Upset?" Hawke gave him a grin. "What makes you think I'm upset? Beyond the prospect of having to pay your tab at The Hanged Man, that is."

"That alone would be enough to upset anyone," Varric noted. "Come on, Hawke. Tell me the rest of it."

Hawke exhaled noisily. "You're a dreadfully nosy bastard, you know that, dwarf?" she said with resignation. "All right." Her eyes fixed on his with that same intensity he'd noticed before. "You almost died today, Varric."

"I almost die on a semi-regular basis, Hawke," Varric scoffed.

Her eyes didn't waver. "We had to press on your chest to keep your heart beating."

A cold feeling crept over the dwarf, but he managed an amused snort. "That explains why it feels like I've been sat on by an elephant, then."

"Maker's breath, Varric… I thought - we all thought - you weren't going to make it."

"I'm a dwarf, Hawke," Varric tried to comfort her, "we're tough bastards."

"You need to add stubborn and cheating to that list," said Anders from the doorway.

"I don't _cheat_, Blondie. I _alter the odds in my favor_."

"I see that stubborn is a given, though." The healer smiled. "It's good to see you awake so soon. Do you think you could drink some soup, and a few potions?"

Varric made a face. "What kind of potions? A man would rather die than drink some of your concoctions, Blondie…"

Anders reached in to his coat and withdrew a small handful of vials. "Antidote to venom," he murmured, holding one aloft. "Some things to clean your blood," he raised a second and third. "And a general _apres_-poison tonic, courtesy of serah Tomwise." He wiggled the last. "Shepard says there's still venom in your bloodstream, so the sooner we can get it cleaned out, the faster you'll be on your feet again."

"Maker's balls, Blondie. I'm already back on my feet," Varric pushed himself up and tried to swing his legs off the bed.

Anders watched with amusement as the dwarf struggled. "I don't think so," he said.

Varric collapsed back into the pillows. "I feel as weak as a newborn nug," he complained. "And every muscle is screaming like an abscessed tooth."

"The wonders of nature," declared Anders. "That's venom for you."

Varric eyed the potions warily. "Can the condemned dwarf at least request a last drink?"

"Varric," interrupted Hawke, "You can even have them with some of that Antivan brandy Aveline gifted me."

"You jest, Hawke!" scoffed the dwarf. "You do not use best Antivan brandy as a chaser for foul potions."

"The contents of my drinks cabinet are yours, my trusty dwarf. Just drink the blasted potions."

"Whiskey," the dwarf demanded. "The stronger, the better."

Hawke nodded and gave him a grin. "I'll be right back."

As soon as she was gone, Varric fixed Anders with a stern look. "Just how bad was it, Blondie?"

"Bad," the healer confirmed. "Not Shepard-bad, but enough to drain me twice."

"I'm an endpoint on your scale of bad things now?" demanded Shepard incredulously as she limped through the door.

"Shepard," said Anders evenly, "keeping you alive the night they brought you to me was the most difficult thing I've ever had to do, magically speaking."

She gave a wry shrug. "Someday, I suppose someone will finally decide it's just too much effort, and leave me dead."

The healer's eyes raked over her shrewdly. "Isn't the balm working?"

"I'm sure it is. But I still stiffen up if I don't keep moving."

"Looks like a party," commented Hawke, entering with a cloudy amber bottle and a heavy crystal glass.

"A party on the theme of _ow_," clarified Anders.

Hawke snorted. "I hope you were serious when you said strong, Varric. This stuff will probably take the shine off a sovereign." She set the glass on the small bedside table and uncapped the bottle.

Anders came to the side of the bed, offering the first vial to Varric as Hawke poured a stiff two fingers of liquid into the glass. Shepard realized that the bottle was clear - it was the liquid inside that was a cloudy amber. The fumes were enough to make her eyes water from across the room.

Varric grimaced as he finished the first vial. "Maker, that's awful," he gagged, reaching for the glass.

"Maker, that's even worse!" he added after taking a sip. "You can't even swallow it - it just evaporates into your sinuses."

Anders handed over the second vial. "Quit complaining and just drink them," he said briskly.

"Easy for you to say." The dwarf swallowed the contents of the second vial and immediately held out a hand for the third.

"That's it," encouraged the healer. "The quicker you get them down, the quicker it's over."

The liquid in the third vial caused Varric's face to screw up tightly, and he shuddered violently. He reached for the glass of whiskey and tossed it back, causing him to cough and sputter as the alcohol immediately turned to vapor in the warmth of his mouth.

Anders took pity on him. "Easy, Varric. We'll save the last one for after we've managed to get some soup in you."

The dwarf gasped for air, wiping at his eyes with a hand that trembled. "Remind me never to almost-die again," he grumbled.

"I'll go down and ask Orana to make up a tray or something," Shepard offered. "I can feel my muscles starting to cramp again."

"Spiders got you too, huh?" sympathized Varric.

"Not exactly," replied Shepard, evasively. "I'll be back in a minute."

Varric frowned at Hawke. "What did she mean _not exactly_?"

Hawke gave him a fond smile. "She wasn't injured in the fight with the spiders. But she did carry you through the mines and across half of Kirkwall."

"Shepard carried me?"

"Yep. At a run, most of the way."

Varric blinked in surprise. "I must outweigh her by five stone, at least."

"She's stronger than she looks," Anders chided. "That armor of hers is lighter than full plate, but it's a lot heavier than the leather that both you and Hawke favor, and she wears it like it's nothing."

"I've brought messere's soup, mistress," came a soft, hesitant voice from the doorway. Hawke turned her head and motioned to Orana to come in.

The shy elven girl entered with a laden tray. "Lady Shepard said I should bring up your supper as well, mistress," she said. "I hope that was right?"

Hawke smiled. "Of course, Orana," she said gently, remembering Aveline's estimation of Shepard's leadership abilities. If Shepard could command the city guard with word, Hawke's gentle servant girl probably only required her to drop a hint.

"Let me check your breathing and heartbeat, and then I'll go down and join Shepard in the kitchen." He raised an eyebrow at Hawke in interrogation. "I expect you'd prefer for me to stay here tonight, to be on the safe side?"

"You expect right," Hawke confirmed as the healer bent to his tasks.

"Both strong for now," Anders said with satisfaction. He set the final vial on the bedside table. "I'll leave it to you to see that he drinks this," he added.

Hawke sketched him a mock salute as he left.


	24. Chapter 23

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

Shepard rolled over and stifled a groan.

_That's it. I'm getting a real bed. Do you think anyone here makes a decent latex mattress?_

Her body felt like it had turned to stone, while retaining the ability to feel pain. Ooh, lots of pain.

Slowly, she levered herself into a sitting position, rubbing the heels of her hands against her thighs.

_I think the first order of the day is going to be visiting the bath house._

The smell of frying flatbread hit her nose with the force of a gunship rocket, and Shepard's stomach cramped and gurgled restlessly at her.

_Okay… breakfast first, then bath house. And then up to check on Varric._

Shepard dressed as quickly as she was able to, given the stiffness of her muscles, and paused to pour herself a glass of tepid water that tasted slightly fuzzy and stale from the pitcher she kept in the kitchen. A scrounge of that room turned up only a small, wrinkled apple, as she expected. Shepard bit into it ravenously anyway.

Feeling she might survive long enough to make it to the bazaar now, Shepard locked her door behind her and headed out of her building, nibbling around the apple core.

Standing under the vhenadahl, apparently waiting for her, were two completely different figures. Both were receiving, and ignoring - with varying degrees of success - a host of assorted odd looks from the alienage's inhabitants.

The first was lean and lithe, scowling out at the alienage from under a shock of pale hair like its very existence was a personal affront, every line of his body stiff and brooding under his spiky hide armor.

The second was muscular and imposing, arms crossed and feet planted shoulder's width apart, as if daring the world to counter his presence, wearing only a minimum of protection - leather breeches and a stiff, skirted loin covering - his bronze skin etched with red lines from cheekbones to waist.

Shepard greeted the elf first.

"Fenris," she nodded. "Not that it isn't a pleasure to see you, but what are you doing here?"

The elf's face screwed up in distaste. "Running errands for Hawke," he replied. "She sent me to inform you that the dwarf is doing well. The mage," Fenris practically spat the word, "believes he will be fully recovered in a day or two."

His eyes raked the courtyard uncomfortably. "I was also supposed to speak to the blood mage, but she has yet to emerge."

"Merrill?" questioned Shepard. "You could just knock on her door, you know. For that matter, you could have come and knocked on mine."

"I have no desire to be anywhere near the blood mage's rooms," Fenris replied stiffly. "Nor did I wish to impose on your rest."

"Fenris," Shepard said evenly, "you are welcome to impose any time you want. If it's really not a good time, I'll tell you to come back later."

The elf inclined his head but did not respond. His eyes regarded her closely. "Are you injured?" he asked. "You are holding yourself… awkwardly."

"Stiff," Shepard corrected. "And really sore," she admitted. "I haven't done a run like yesterday's since N-school. I've been lucky enough to have always had shuttle evac when it mattered in the field."

She shook her head. "For someone so short, Varric certainly has a lot of mass. He must weigh eighty, eight-five kilos, easy."

"I wouldn't know," Fenris replied, mild amusement in his green eyes. "I have never had occasion to attempt lifting the dwarf."

"Trust me," Shepard rubbed one shoulder gingerly, "he's a heavy little shit."

Fenris' lips curved in a brief smile. Then his eyes slid to the side. "I believe you have another visitor, as well."

Shepard sighed. "Looks that way, doesn't it?" She turned to face the qunari.

"Good morning," she said politely. "Were you waiting for me?"

The kossith's eyes flicked over her. "Yes," he said shortly.

This soldier's were a dark shade of violet, and not familiar. Shepard was learning.

"Ashaad? Karasaad?" she inquired.

The violet eyes flickered again. "Karasaad," he replied.

Shepard nodded. "May I change my clothes?"

A faint frown wrinkled the brow beneath his horns. "You are already adequately clothed," he responded.

She acknowledged the point with a nod. "I meant armor."

"It is unnecessary."

Shepard supposed that the argument, _but your boss prefers to see me in armor_, really didn't carry the right kind of weight. And it admitted that Shepard was altering her actions specifically for the Arishok, which would convey exactly the wrong kind of message to the qunari leader.

"Very well," she said. "I will, however, need to stop by one of the food stalls in the bazaar. I haven't had a chance to eat breakfast."

"As you require, basra,"

Shepard's eyebrows rose substantially. What happened to all the _no_, and _now_, and _the Arishok does not wait for bas_? Maybe Asa was right when he said that more had changed than Shepard knew.

The elven warrior's eyebrows were also elevated. "You have gained an amount of respect, Shepard," he commented. "Hawke is right to call you the qunari charmer. What you have accomplished is no easy feat."

"Oh, I expect it's largely out of a curiosity over my technology," Shepard was dismissive. "But it beats the hell out of being treated like a varren with a bad case of scale itch." She gave him an amiable nod. "Don't sit out here waiting all day."

With that, she pivoted on her heel and lead the way out of the alienage, the karasaad close behind.

**-ooo-**

Shepard had to make a fairly substantial detour through the bazaar to find what she was looking for. Not the food - with suggestions from a few of the more outgoing elves in the alienage, Shepard had been directed to several stalls that sold simple, tasty offerings for a few copper coins apiece. Most of it tended toward what would be called street food back on Earth - small, portable meals that were often the staple of the poor laboring class. Or her morning drink - also courtesy of Kirkwall's elves - a thick, potent brew that was equally sweet and spicy and left a faintly bitter aftertaste, and which Shepard liked to think of, despite all evidence to the contrary, as krogan coffee.

No. It was a stall tucked up at the top of the bazaar, not far from the main thoroughfare to the Hightown markets, that took her out of her way. The stall's proprietor wore a dress of finer fabric than was usually seen in Lowtown, dyed in a shade of periwinkle to match her eyes and set off her golden hair.

"Serah Elegant?" Shepard inquired politely, unsure of the proper title and plumping for one that she heard most often.

"I am Lady Elegant," the woman corrected, but without rebuke. "May I assist you, serah?"

"A friend of mine recommended you," Shepard said. "Anders?"

The herbalist's face dropped into a knowing smile. "Ah, yes. The healer of Darktown. As for a _friend_…" Elegant's eyes had gone from soft and almost dreamy to shrewd and measuring in the space of a heartbeat. "There is only one who truly counts the healer of Darktown amongst her friends. You must know Hawke."

Shepard put her head on one side, unsure she liked the herbalist's tone. It was far too close to the verbal games of cat and mouse that high-level politicians - or businessmen - played. "Yes," she said shortly.

"In that case," Elegant said, suddenly all business, "I will offer you the same as I offer her. A discount, if you can find me new sources of reagents."

Shepard shook her head. "I'm very sorry," she apologized, "but I'm afraid I wouldn't know what I was looking for. I'm just a simple soldier."

Elegant tipped her head. "A simple soldier?" she echoed, and the hint of mockery in her voice and the glint in her eyes said she didn't believe that for a second. She shrugged. "Very well. I suspect that, as a _simple soldier_, you may provide a certain amount of reliable custom. Was there something in particular you were looking for? Elfroot potions? Stamina elixirs?"

"Muscle balm, please," said Shepard. "And something for general aches and pains, if you have it."

Elegant selected a small squat jar that Shepard recognized, and a small, waxed-paper pouch that she didn't. "I can smell that you're already familiar with my muscle balm," Elegant said. "This," she indicated the waxed paper, "about a snuff's worth to be infused in boiling water for five minutes, no more than three times a day."

"Snuff's worth?" Shepard queried.

Elegant picked up a delicate little spoon from a display of small, decorative boxes - snuff boxes, Shepard surmised - and flourished it. "Or a heavy pinch, should you require a bit more relief. As for right now…"

The herbalist sorted through a few vials and turned back to Shepard. "This should take care of the pain in that shoulder," she said, pressing a dark blue vial into Shepard's hands. "Consider it a… gesture of good will, to one of Hawke's friends."

"Thank you, Lady Elegant," Shepard nodded, tucking the three items into her pockets. "I appreciate your help and… good will."

Elegant smiled enigmatically. "Of course, serah."

The karasaad had remained silent, in the pose of a qunari at leisure - which was only a step away from belligerent for anyone else - during the entire exchange, but as Shepard turned away from Elegant's stall, he voiced a question.

"You are injured?"

Shepard gave a lopsided shrug. "Not exactly."

The karasaad pondered this. "Both the elf and the…merchant…noted weakness. Your whole posture speaks of it."

Shepard stretched her shoulders and cracked her neck. "It will pass." In curiosity, she delved into a pocket and withdrew the small blue vial. She worked the stopper out and gave it a sniff. It smelled faintly of licorice, with an undertone that Shepard associated as _medical disinfectant_. She grimaced, but took an experimental swig. And gagged.

"Why does all the medicine here have to taste like shit?" Shepard muttered sourly, recorking the vial and returning it to her pocket.

"It is in the nature of medicine to taste bad," responded the karasaad. "It does not have to have a pleasing flavor."

This karasaad was almost chatty by qunari standards. "Hmm," said Shepard. "Where I come from, medicines rarely have flavor at all, unless you allow them to dissolve slowly in your mouth."

"Are your people so weak that they must be sheltered from even a necessary unpleasantness?"

Shepard considered this. After a moment, she snorted with amusement. "A lot of them, yes," she admitted. "But medicine… well, mostly the lack of taste is a by-product of the way it's manufactured. Oral medications are usually made into pills…" Shepard groped for another word to describe it, "… kind of like, oh, little nuggets… that you simply swallow with or without liquid."

"Interesting," murmured the karasaad. "But still unnecessary."

Shepard's lips twitched. "Perhaps," she said. "Efficient, however."

The qunari made a sound between a hum and a grunt and Shepard could swear, almost_ swear,_ that the violet eyes rolled ever so slightly.

Shepard shook her head.

_Fucking qunari._

**-ooo-**

The soldier with topaz eyes was on gate duty again. Shepard nodded politely to him.

"Karasaad."

His eyes flickered over her. "Basra."

She stepped through the gate and paused. "Is the Arishok in the library tent?" she asked her escort.

The violet-eyed karasaad did not reply. He strode past her, leaving Shepard to shrug to herself and follow in his wake. As they neared their destination, she voiced her growing irritation.

"You know, you could have just said yes or no," she grumbled at him. "I mean, god forbid I should get ideas above my station, or anything, but there's really no need for the secrecy. I _am_ allowed to come and go as I please, you know."

"This has nothing to do with you, basra," he grated. "I _will_ complete my task."

"Your task being to bring me here? Guess what? I'm here. What, do you think I'd come this far and then run back home?" Shepard snapped irritably. Her head felt funny, as if her scalp was too tight. Not painful, just… wrong.

"My task being to bring you to the Arishok," he corrected sternly.

Shepard sighed. "You people are so… literal, sometimes."

The karasaad turned his head and fixed her with a violet stare. "And do you make it a point to leave a task half-finished, basra?"

Shepard ran her hands through her hair and sighed again. "No. No, I don't."

Point made, the karasaad ignored her for the rest of the walk through the compound. Shepard scrubbed her face with one hand, feeling oddly restless. It manifested itself as a kind of low-grade all-over body itch. Shepard knew the itch wasn't real, that rubbing her skin or scratching her head would do nothing to relieve the tension, but it didn't help. She just felt… off.

She growled at nothing in particular.

The karasaad delivered her to the Arishok's library tent - _why? why couldn't he have just said yes?_ - and there was a brief exchange in which Shepard was sure she was the subject. She stood just within the tent flap with her arms folded on her chest and her weight on one heel, completely failing to keep a scowl off her face.

_Bastards. I wish to hell my translator was equipped with qunlat…_

The karasaad left, and Shepard tried not to fidget under the Arishok's gaze.

"The karasaad says you are injured," the Arishok rumbled after his long scrutiny.

Shepard's scowl deepened. "No, I'm not injured. I simply overexerted myself yesterday," she retorted. "The karasaad knew this."

The yellow eyes continued their regard. "You are fit, then?" he questioned, brow raised.

Shepard rolled her head and shoulders. "Yes," she answered, realizing that it was true. The previous stiffness in her limbs seemed to have eased considerably.

"Good." The Arishok rose to his feet. "You will come with me," he stated, pushing his way out of the tent.

Shepard dropped her arms and stared after his back for a moment, then took a skipping step to catch up with the giant. "What's this about?" she asked.

"_Without complaint_," he reminded her.

"I'm not complaining," Shepard replied. "I'm _asking_."

"Must you always question?" the Arishok grumbled. "You are like imekari, demanding answers without reflection."

Shepard bridled. "As opposed to blind obedience?" she questioned. "Yes."

The Arishok exhaled sharply. "I wish to observe you."

Shepard spread her arms wide. "Here I am."

After a moment, it became clear where they were headed. "You want to see me fight again," Shepard stated flatly.

"I wish to see you move without armor," the Arishok clarified. "I wish to see how you hold yourself against another warrior with no weapons between you."

Shepard snorted. "If you're looking for naked oil wresting, you've come to the wrong girl."

The Arishok did not respond.

"So are you at least going to face me yourself this time?" Shepard demanded.

"No."

Shepard ground her teeth. "Why not?" she shot back.

Once again, the Arishok said nothing, merely gesturing to her to take her place in the sparring ring.

Muttering to herself, Shepard stomped over to a crate at the edge of the cleared area and began emptying her pockets. When she had finished, she removed her dagger and belt pouch, and finally unfastened her omni-tool and laid it gently aside. Then she returned to the center of the sparring ring, cracking, rolling and popping various joints to loosen them. Her muscles actually felt pretty good; no longer tight but relaxed and warm.

Later, Shepard would feel a little stupid about that.

Her opponent stepped forward, removing his heavy leather overskirt and handing it to another soldier. He gave Shepard a short nod.

"Karasaad?" Shepard asked, returning the nod.

"Sten," the soldier corrected shortly. Shepard noted his eyes were a striking, deep reddish gold.

He attacked without further preamble, a jab-hook combination designed more to test her defenses than to do damage. Shepard dodged and slapped it away easily, dropping down for a leg sweep.

The sten avoided the sweep adroitly, countering with a controlled bull rush to take advantage of her low position. Shepard rolled out of the way, but the sten had anticipated her reaction and altered his charge to intercept her. Shepard stayed low and lashed out with her heel, catching him just under the kneecap with a glancing blow.

The sten backed off slightly, just out of range, waiting to see if Shepard would take the offensive.

This was a far different fight from her last. There, Shepard had let the other soldier do all the work, allowing him to chase her as she stayed just out of his range. He had obliged her by always advancing, always seeking an attack.

"_So, wise guy," Shepard had grumbled to Thane one day, after hitting the floor what seemed the hundredth time during their sparring match. "What do you do when your opponent has reach, strength, speed, _and_ skill over you?" She gave him a pointed stare._

"_Be better with a gun," the assassin had replied evenly, completely deadpan. _

"_Such wisdom," she'd said sarcastically. "I _am_."_

_He helped her to her feet, but kept a grasp on her hand, looking deep into her eyes. "When your opponent is stronger, faster, and better than you… then you must be smarter. That is what I have been trying to teach you, Siha."_

_Shepard sighed. "This was a lot easier when the answer was just to be meaner and tougher and a bigger bastard."_

_Thane gave her a hint of a grin. "Also helpful, it is true. But these are a reflection of will, and of that you have exquisite mastery."_

_Shepard poked him in the chest with one finger. "Did you just call me a bastard?"_

"_And mean," he agreed, brushing aside a strand of hair that was stuck to her cheek. "And tough," he murmured, ghosting his lips across hers. _

_Shepard melted against him. "That's all right then," she breathed, mollified._

_And locked the assassin's knee with her own, dropping him backwards to the floor._

**-ooo-**

Shepard darted in, faking a kick and following it with a right hook. He bought the kick, and the right hook scored, but to Shepard's eye it seemed that her fist had taken more damage than the qunari's chin.

_Note to self: kossith do _not_ have glass chins. Important fact._

Ribs and knees worked to her advantage before. Body shots in particular would be more difficult this time around, however. This qunari had a much more impressive guard, and scoring on him would mean getting inside that reach of his.

Shepard narrowed her eyes, watching his movement. When she spotted an opening, she took it, coming inside, leading with a forearm and elbow into the sten's diaphragm.

And the giant picked her up by the back of her collar as if he were lifting a kitten by the scruff of its neck.

Shepard started to bring a foot up into that wide, red painted chest, but the sten flung her away easily. Shepard's shoulders hit the dirt, and she skidded along on her back for a half a meter.

She rolled to her feet, cursing under her breath. Her ruined shirt hung open, and she pulled it off impatiently.

_Okay, Shepard. Look for weakness. Keep moving. Think._

She edged to one side, hoping to open his stance and give her a shot at the inside of his knee. Instead, the sten took a shuffle step and threw a jab that came in like a Trident on a bombing pass.

Shepard jerked her head, trying to move with the sten's strike, but her timing was off. The edges of the qunari's knuckles grazed her cheekbone.

She had sparred with James on occasion, and the big marine had managed to get through Shepard's defenses once or twice - one lucky shot giving the commander an impressive shiner. That didn't hold a candle to the power she felt behind the qunari's punch, despite its glancing nature.

_Even _holding back_, this guy could knock your head right off, Shepard._

She shook it off, feeling herself getting angry and frustrated. This would be about the time that Thane would take her down; when her concentration was just a little bit off, when she was a little less cautious than she should be.

_Maybe that means you should do things a little differently, Shepard._

Shepard backed off, and stood still, trying to fight down the frustration. While her muscles felt fine; great even, the feeling of an all-over body itch had intensified. Her skin tingled, as if in contact with a mild electric charge. A roar was working its way up her chest.

Shepard grunted and forced it back down. _C'mon, Shepard. Let him come to you. Let him give you an opening, then take him down, hard. You do _not_ want to go three rounds with this one._

The two combatants eyed each other warily, waiting for the other to move. Shepard had to struggle with herself every minute. She tried centering breaths, as if she were sniping, but the restlessness enveloped her, disrupting her breathing and demanding she do _something_. She fidgeted, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

The qunari moved in. Not a rush, just a calm, cautious bridging of the gap between them. With his superior reach, he would easily be able to strike from a distance she couldn't land a counterstrike from.

Shepard had two choices. Try to come inside his guard again, or retreat.

She took the third choice. She charged like a krogan.

It was a wildly unexpected move, and it caught the sten off guard. Shepard's shoulder hit him in the gut, knocking the air out of him and upsetting his balance. As she bore the giant backwards, all of her training screamed at her not to go to the ground with an opponent twice her size and mass.

And this was why. As he fell, the qunari twisted beneath her. Although she landed on top of the giant, he was already rolling, pinning her underneath him. She got one arm free and rammed the heel of her palm into the sten's windpipe. As the qunari recoiled, Shepard pushed out from under his chest and flipped over, scrabbling to get her feet under her, only to have one large hand wrap around her ankle, denying her escape.

Shepard whipped her free heel around, aiming for the soldier's temple. She'd lost sight of the fact that this was supposed to be a sparring match - adrenaline told her that she was fighting for real.

The qunari caught her foot before it found its target, dropping Shepard to her belly. She shoved herself back onto her heels, jabbing backward with her elbow.

A grunt and the sudden release of her limbs indicated that she'd hit something important. Shepard launched herself forward in a roll and came up reaching for a missing pistol.

Her chest heaved, but not with exertion. Something was wrong. She felt… Shepard didn't know _how_ she felt, just that she shouldn't be feeling that way. Some combination of nerves and aggression. Like some kind of bad trip…

_Oh god. The painkiller._

Shepard didn't have time to reflect on this revelation before the qunari was up and charging her. Her blind elbow had caught the sten just under the eye, cutting his cheekbone slightly and giving him a decent mouse. Shepard barely managed to dodge the attack, but snapped off a strike to his kidneys as she sidestepped to the left.

The sten's right arm dropped, sweeping her blow wide, and he pivoted, his left hand snaking out to catch her round the throat.

Even knowing that her response was disproportionate to the threat, that she was acting under the influence of some kind of drug, Shepard couldn't stop her instincts. Her right hand reached up to where the giant's thumb lay almost along the back of her skull and her fingers curled around it, not trying to pull it away from her neck, but bending it at the first knuckle, curling it it towards the palm. Given that it was the direction the digit was being moved by its owner, Shepard met little resistance. The sten's eyebrows rose as his thumb slipped free of Shepard's neck, and then even further as Shepard began to squeeze her fingers, hyperflexing the first joint to an excruciating point. As the giant yielded to the painful pressure, Shepard turned his wrist outwards, locking the joint.

Reflexively, the sten tried to pull his arm back in to his body. As his elbow bent slightly. Shepard's free hand caught it, adding extra torque to the lock. The qunari's back arched as the lock reached his shoulder, and he practically flipped backward, finally coming to rest on his right side, with Shepard still controlling his left arm. She planted her foot on his jaw, further immobilizing him.

"Tap, dammit," she growled, torquing the lock just a little more.

"I yield," the sten replied, wincing slightly.

For a moment, Shepard struggled with herself. Her body was screaming at her to finish it, to twist her torso sharply, snapping the sten's wrist and probably tearing tendons in his elbow and shoulder. Her mind was screaming back that it was finished, it was a sparring match, for fucksake!

Her mind prevailed, and Shepard snatched herself away from the qunari as if he burned.

The ring of watching qunari seemed to constrict towards her, and she held up her hands, her tongue suddenly feeling thick and dry in her mouth. Then the whole world seemed to blur and darken at the edges of her vision.

"I…" she managed. "I…"

Shepard fainted.

**-ooo-**

Shepard was already moving, even before she was fully conscious.

"Pashaara," growled a voice, and a large hand pinned her down.

"Careful. She might be combati…" began a second voice.

Shepard lashed out wildly. Her fists found nothing but air, but her foot made contact with something hard and unyielding and her ankle rolled painfully.

Her flailing hands were captured and held firmly against her chest.

"Easy, Shepard," said the second voice. "You will injure yourself."

Slowly, Shepard's vision returned. She was staring at a broad, painted chest and heavy spaulders.

The Arishok.

It was he who held her pinioned, his yellow eyes watching her intently.

She stilled. "What happened?" she asked, carefully.

Asa appeared in her line of sight, holding up a small, blue vial. "A powerful narcotic," he said. "Were you not aware?"

Later caught up with Shepard. Her face flushed with embarrassment.

"I… knew it was a pain reliever. I had no idea it was going to… have that effect."

"I'm impressed you were able to function at all," said the healer. "The drug is _very_ powerful."

Shepard swallowed. "I'm… resistant… to a lot of drugs," she said slowly. She could still feel the agitation, but it seemed further away now, damped in a haze of numb warmth. "I feel it now, of course, but then… I was just nervous, jittery. And really, really angry."

Her brow crinkled suddenly. "I didn't hurt the sten, did I? I… I let go when he yielded, right?"

The Arishok made a deep rumble in his chest. "You did."

Shepard sagged in relief, remembering how much she'd wanted to injure the kossith soldier. "Thank god."

She met the Arishok's eyes. "I'm sorry," she said sincerely. "I had no idea."

"It was foolish of you to be so incautious with an unknown substance," he said abrasively.

Shepard had to concede this. "You're probably right."

"Are you always so foolhardy?" he snapped.

Her eyes flashed. "Usually the damn side effects are printed clearly on the bottle," she snapped back. "As is the name of the drug itself. Where I come from, people don't just hand out narcotic analgesics like they were an after-dinner mint!"

They stared at one another angrily.

"Let me go," Shepard grated, suddenly realizing that the Arishok still held her tightly.

"Will you behave?" he growled back.

"Behave?!"

Asa made a sharp comment in qunlat. The Arishok returned fire in the same, but slowly released his pressure on Shepard.

Shepard, for her part, immediately attempted to sit up and instead fell over.

The Arishok said a single word in qunlat. Shepard had heard it before, but had no clue as to its meaning, beyond a certain derogatory inflection.

"_Imekari."_

Asa sighed as the Arishok righted Shepard while Shepard, in turn, did her best to refuse his assistance.

"Do yourself a favor and just lay quietly, Shepard," he said wearily. "You will be free to go when the narcotic wears off."

"Wears off?"

The healer nodded. "Until then, you are at risk of injuring yourself. Or, given Kirkwall's inhabitants, of being injured." He paused. "You will be safer if you just stay here. Provided," he added a touch acerbically, "you stop kicking the walls, that is."

Shepard huffed in exasperation, but settled back on the cot. Surreptitiously, she eased her ankle back and forth, trying to assess the damage. It was no good. Her body felt heavy and warm and liquid, and pain seemed like a memory that hovered just beyond recollection.

"How long?" she asked.

"Pardon?"

"The drug. How long will it last?"

Asa considered. "The better part of a day, perhaps."

Shepard groaned. She couldn't help but wonder if the herbalist had done this on purpose. Not _this_ this - she doubted that Elegant would have enough foreknowledge to have planned_ this_ - but that Shepard would have taken the potion and ended up comatose somewhere, and easy prey to Kirkwall's many predators.

As suspicious an old soldier as she was, Shepard had to concede that it was unlikely. Both Anders and Hawke had spoken highly of the herbalist's skill, and if Elegant harbored any ill will toward either, there were certainly subtler ways to prosecute a campaign against them.

There was a rumble beside her. "Your technique is flawed, basra."

Shepard blinked. Her lids felt heavy. "I didn't realize there was a technique. Seems to me it's always been; _take painkillers, get loopy, pass out_."

She held up a hand. Or tried to. "No, wait," she said. "There was that one time…"

Shepard frowned. "Okay, so sometimes it goes; _take painkillers, get loopy, _say extremely embarrassing things to your squad_, pass out_."

The Arishok snorted. "I was not debating your skill in that area. You have more than proven yourself when it comes to intoxication."

Something about this struck Shepard as hilarious.

"You should try it sometime," she suggested, when her laughter calmed.

The Arishok's face was disapproving. "There is no purpose in it," he said flatly.

Shepard forced her eyes open wide and stared at the massive kossith. "Don't you ever do _anything_ for fun?" she asked plaintively.

"No," he answered levelly. "There is…"

"…no purpose in it," Shepard finished wearily. "Really? What's the point of life if you don't at least _try_ to enjoy it occasionally?"

"There is duty," said the Arishok. "There is honor. There is purpose."

"There is friendship. There is happiness. There is love," Shepard retorted.

"All these may be found in duty," the Arishok informed her.

Now it was Shepard's turn to snort. "Don't lecture me on duty. I know more about duty than you can imagine, you _ass_."

There was a warning rumble from the giant.

Shepard struggled to a sitting position and thrust one finger into the Arishok's chest. "I just saved _the whole fucking galaxy_, you great horned bastard! I sacrificed more in the name of_ duty_ than you can possibly know. Everything I had, and everything I was, I gave in the name of _duty_."

Anger burned the glaze from her eyes momentarily as she glared at him. "Duty means setting aside things like _friendship_, and _happiness_, and _love_. I have sent friends to their death in the name of _duty_. I have forsaken love and happiness to do my _duty_. So I don't want to hear _another god damn word out of you_ about _duty_."

"How is it you understand so much and yet so little?" the Arishok demanded, his deep voice low and soft.

Shepard blinked at him and let herself flop back to the cot. "Oh, go away," she said. "Leave me alone." She shut her eyes tightly and turned her head away from the giant.

He did not, and nor did Shepard really expect him to. Before the narcotic lassitude swallowed her, she could hear him say something very softly to Asa in their own tongue. Shepard could not understand the words, but she she was familiar with the tone.

_Regret._

* * *

_A/N: Sorry it's a short chapter. Events... eventuated, and I got behind in my writing (among other things, like dishes, laundry, and keeping ahead of the dog hair). At some point, I'll probably go through what's been written and reorganize the chapters. Just like at some point, I'll tackle the dog hair dust bunnies of doom. Someday.  
_


	25. Chapter 24

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

"How was I to know?" Shepard demanded amidst Varric's guffaws. "Where I'm from, we don't just give out shit like that. They're _controlled substances_."

It was the evening following her disastrous experiment with Thedosian pharmaceuticals, and the first time they'd all been together since Varric's brush with death. Apart from the fading bruises and some lingering soreness, the dwarf seemed none the worse for wear. Hawke, too, appeared to be back to her usual light-hearted self, although she seemed to be somewhat hyper-aware of her fellow rogue.

They'd only managed a few hands of Wicked Grace before the story of Shepard passing out in front of the Arishok sent most of the rest of the group into paroxysms of laughter.

"May I?" asked Anders, holding out a hand with a faint smile on his face.

Shepard fished in her pocket for a moment. Her fingers closed on the cool glass of the small vial, and she withdrew it, depositing it in Anders' outstretched palm with bad grace.

Anders worked the stopper out and raised the vial to his nose. With a nod, he replaced the stopper.

"Andraste's Blessing," he stated. "As the qunari said, a very potent narcotic."

Shepard shook her head. "And with not a word of warning or caution. What kind of game was Elegant playing?"

Hawke had yet to stop laughing. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, and her breath came in short hitches.

"You slept with the Arishok!" she wheezed, while Shepard frowned and bit back on the automatic retort of _I did not_.

"No," she said flatly. "I passed out in a tent in which the Arishok also happened to be sitting."

Anders glanced from the rogue to the Spectre and shook his head faintly. "Elegant couldn't have guessed you wouldn't recognize it, Shepard," he said. "Andraste's Blessing is widely used and has a very unique odor. As a soldier, and given your obvious scarring," - Shepard's facial wounds had yet to fully close, and still glowed faintly - "she probably assumed you would be familiar with it."

"I thought it smelled like disinfectant," Shepard grumbled. "But all of your medicines stink, Anders. No offense."

A thought occurred to her, and Shepard withdrew the small bit of folded waxed paper. "Can you tell me what this is, before I take it and make a fool out of myself somewhere else?"

Anders set the package on the table and gently unfolded it, taking a tiny pinch and touching it to his tongue. "Willowbark," he commented. "Tumeric, sour cherry, and witch's cap. Possibly a few others - I can taste elfroot as well."

"And?" Shepard demanded. "Side effects?"

The healer shrugged. "Seems like a pretty standard mixture for aches and pains, swelling, that sort of thing. Shouldn't cause any problems unless you take too much of it. Then nausea, dizziness or light-headedness."

"Is that it?" she pressed.

"If you really took too much, I suppose you might faint. It thins the blood."

Shepard frowned again. "Elegant was careful to tell me how much to use, and not to take it more than three times a day. So why didn't she bother to warn me about the other one?"

"I told you. She probably figured it was something you'd know. Andraste's Blessing is a mercenary's best friend."

Shepard sighed.

Hawke was slowly hiccuping to a stop, wiping at her eyes. "Maker, Shepard, I haven't laughed like that in _weeks_."

"I'm glad I'm able to amuse you," Shepard replied coldly.

Varric chuckled. "You have to admit, Starkiller, you are building quite the reputation with the ox-men. Bathing with them, having milk and cookies with them, napping with them…"

"You make it sound like kindergarten," complained the Spectre. "It wasn't like that at all."

"What's kindergarten?" asked Hawke curiously.

Shepard blinked. She hadn't been thinking when she used the term. "It's a word sometimes used to describe the first year of mandatory schooling for a child. Most kids start earlier than that now though, with preschool or educational daycare."

"Schooling is mandatory for children?" Fenris asked, surprised.

"In most countries on Earth, yes. The number of years varies, though. In the UNAS, where I was born, the standard is about thirteen."

"Thirteen years of schooling?" gasped Hawke. "Maker's balls! That's your whole childhood."

"Yeah, pretty much," agreed Shepard.

"You really had tutors for thirteen years?" Isabela demanded. "And didn't run away?"

Shepard flushed slightly. "Actually, no. I… well, I did run away. I dropped out when I was twelve. I… wasn't cut out for school."

"Twelve?" said Hawke. "When did you start?"

"Most kids are five when they start kindergarten," Shepard shrugged.

"And you say that most children complete their schooling?" Fenris continued, interest in his eyes.

Shepard nodded, raising her mug of flat ale. "Yeah, the majority do."

"So that would mean that most of your people are scholars?"

Shepard almost shot ale out her nose. After she managed to control her coughing and choking, Fenris added, "Did I say something wrong?"

With a strangled wheeze, Shepard shook her head. "No," she managed. "It's just…" she chuckled, setting off another coughing fit. When it finally subsided, she essayed a short, shallow breath and whispered, "In theory they're educated, yes." Her voice grew stronger. "But in reality, what you have is a mass of mostly ignorant people who also lack common sense. While they were busy not learning anything in school, they were missing out on learning from the real world."

"Hmmm. Interesting," was the elf's comment.

"Speaking of ignorance and a lack of common sense," Varric began with a sly grin, "did I ever tell you Hawke's theory of where you were from?"

"Hey!" exclaimed Hawke indignantly.

Shepard cocked her head. "No. Do I want to know?"

Hawke pointed a finger at Varric. "I still think my idea was plausible. And I don't remember _you_ ever even coming up with a theory."

Varric held up his hands consolingly. "I'm not saying your idea was any _crazier_ than the truth. Just that it was crazy."

Hawke rolled her eyes at him.

"See," the dwarf continued, "Hawke thought that you were from Thedas, only hundreds of years from now, and somehow the explosion moved you backward in time."

"What?" Hawke retorted. "It made sense. I mean, here she was, a human who could pretty much speak common, and was familiar with some of our ways but thought they were backward and outdated… "

Shepard had frozen with her mug halfway to her mouth, lips slightly pursed in anticipation of a drink. Her eyes stared blankly into nothing.

Varric shared a concerned glance with Hawke. "Starkiller?"

There are times in a person's life when they suddenly realize that they've had their head so far up their ass that something so utterly, patently obvious that it should have been staring them in the face passed by completely and totally unnoticed.

Shepard had one of these now.

_Shepard, you stupid boshtet… You were so concerned with how _you_ got here, and where _here_ was, that you completely neglected to wonder how _everyone else_ got here._

She began to swear, running through her extensive vocabulary of expletives in a variety of languages.

"I'm a fucking idiot," she announced, dropping her head to the table.

Isabela petted the back of her head. "There, sweet thing. You're pretty, and you can fight."

Hawke frowned at the Spectre. "I don't think I follow…"

Fenris agreed. "I'm with Hawke. Why do you say you're an idiot?"

Shepard lifted her head. "I never asked. I never _thought_ to ask," she said, half in wonder and half in disgust.

"Never asked what, Starkiller?" Varric asked mildly.

"How I managed to end up on a planet full of _humans_," Shepard answered. "Not just creatures that look like humans, but that _call_ themselves humans, and speak human languages."

By the puzzled but interested expressions around the table, Shepard knew the others didn't understand her point.

"The oldest known human extra-solar colony is less than a hundred and ten years old. All the rest are less than thirty-five. How the hell did humans get out here, wherever _here_ is?!"

Still nothing.

"Even if, by some infinitesimally slight chance that humans - or apparent humans, anyway - evolved _by chance_ on another world, there is _no way_ that your culture could have developed along a pathway so similar that you also evolved the same languages."

"So, what?" said Isabela, "Are you trying to say that there aren't humans on other worlds?"

"Not that didn't come from Earth!" Shepard exclaimed.

"Maybe there are, and you just didn't know it," Varric offered.

"That's imposs…" Shepard stopped. "That's _extremely_ improbable," she corrected.

"Yet it seems to be the case, doesn't it?" suggested Anders.

Shepard shook her head tightly. "It doesn't make sense. How extensive is your written history? How far back does it go?"

"Andrastrian history - the history of the Chantry - goes back well over nine hundred years," Anders answered. "The history of the Imperium goes back even farther."

"Approximately twelve hundred years before the beginning of the Andrastrian calendar," Fenris supplied.

"That's… _shit_…" Shepard seemed to be having trouble getting her jaw under control. "Two thousand years?! How the hell is that even possible?"

"Why is it hard for you to believe?" Isabela asked. "We're here, and it's obvious we've been here for a long time." She paused. "Well, not us _personally_, but… you know."

Shepard drained her tankard. "I can't deal with this right now," she said flatly. "Maybe later it will start to make sense."

"Shall I get us some whiskey?" offered Isabela.

"No." Shepard's eyes narrowed, and she shuddered. "_God_ no. There's got to be something else, something that doesn't rival ryncol as the worst alcoholic beverage in the known galaxy."

Varric sighed. "I just _might_ happen to have a very nice bottle of Antivan brandy stashed away," he admitted. He rose and went to the long sideboard at the back of the room. "You owe me a replacement, Starkiller."

"Do you have to keep calling me that?" said Shepard plaintively.

Varric retrieved the bottle and paused, scratching his chin idly as if in thought. "Yes," he said finally, "I think I do."

**-ooo-**

Shepard put her head in her hands. Nothing made sense. Humans had been here, on this planet, for over two thousand years. And yet humans had only developed spaceflight a couple hundred years ago.

Ergo, humans could not have arrived here on their own.

Where did they come from, and who brought them here? And for what purpose?

She wasn't a damned anthropologist. She wasn't a historian, a geneticist, or an archeologist. She wasn't even a damned detective. She was a soldier. She wasn't trained to deal with this kind of shit.

Shoot people? Blow things up? Neutralize a hostile enemy force?

_No problem._

Scrounge through hundreds of written records to piece together events that happened two millennia ago? Reconstruct astrometric data from the same?

_Oh _god_, no._

While Shepard would give a hell of a lot to see any familiar face from the Normandy right now, the one she'd be happiest to see belonged to Liara T'Soni. Liara had the mind for this kind of thing. Shepard did not.

She pulled the next book off the pile, but did not open it.

She might have a chance if the information were on some kind of network, stored in digital format. Her hacking and tech skills were good enough that she'd have a chance of putting together a search bot that would do the majority of the work for her; pulling out pertinent bits of information, compiling them, referencing and cross-referencing them for easy handling.

Shepard sighed and stared down at her omni-tool.

Filled with a sense of hopeless resignation, she opened the messaging client and stared at the list of contacts.

**T'Soni, Liara Dr.**

She brushed her finger over the name.

_PINGING CONTACT…_

_CONTACT UNAVAILABLE._

Suddenly overwhelmed by the stale, musty odor of the library, Shepard shoved herself to her feet and made for the door. She needed something to clear her head, something that she _could_ deal with. Something that was part of _her_ world.

That meant only one thing.

**-ooo-**

The sun beat down on the rooftops, casting a shimmering haze of heat over everything.

Shepard winced at the brightness. Varric's Antivan brandy had been a bit too good last night, and the soft numb blanket it threw over her mind a bit too welcome. On the other hand, there was nothing quite like a fine alcohol hangover. It was a much _higher class_ of pain.

She settled herself on her knees and haunches and rested her left forearm against the crate she'd set up. Her right arm reached up over her shoulder to unclip Garrus from her backplate. The movement was familiar and soothing as she swung the rifle down and settled the stock against her shoulder, propping the barrel on her anchored left hand and tipping her head to bring her eye to the scope.

It wasn't much of a range, Shepard had to admit. This stretch of dockside rooftop was less than 100 meters long, nothing like the 500 meters she preferred. She'd compensated by purchasing smaller targets.

An apple came into focus. Shepard took a centering breath, feeling the world drop away.

Her finger caressed the trigger.

The apple exploded.

Shepard was already resettling the stock and acquiring her next target. A lemon.

Five heartbeats, and the soft tick of the rifle as the heat sink cooled to firing temp.

The lemon leapt off the distant parapet.

Next target. Some sort of small squishy stone fruit. A plum, Shepard thought.

It made a small but interesting spatter pattern as it disintegrated.

The last target in the series was a tiny, hard, round lime.

Shepard didn't even see what happened to it. It was there one moment, gone the next. She smiled to herself and sat back, shifting Garrus into high ready and rising to her feet.

"Basra?"

Shepard didn't think, she reacted. She spun around, whipping the rifle stock in an arc designed to seriously inconvenience anyone standing directly behind her.

Unless it was a two-and-a-quarter meter tall giant with the reflexes of a cat and the strength of an ox. The qunari caught the stock as it swung, stopping it cold.

He made a low grunt of pain when his palm impacted the metal and plastic, but neither hand nor face so much as flinched. Shepard took a step backward, disengaging and allowing her posture to relax, while hoping fervently that the kossith was good at reading body language.

"Sorry about that," she apologized, folding the rifle and returning it to her back. "You startled me."

Far from seeming offended by Shepard's hair-trigger reaction, the qunari seemed to approve of her instincts. "You acted appropriately this time," he commented. "No apology is necessary."

By his use of _this time_, Shepard gathered that this was a qunari she'd dealt with before. He carried a long bow, so she took a guess.

"Ashaad?"

"Yes." The kossith turned his gaze down Shepard's makeshift shooting range. "You seek to test your skills?" he inquired.

"Not really," Shepard shrugged. "I was shooting for fun, to relax."

"Fun?" the ashaad made it sound like a dirty word. Shepard's lips curved at his inflection.

"Yes, fun," she repeated, walking down range to set up a new series of targets. After a moment's hesitation, the ashaad followed.

"You speak as if the act had no purpose," the ashaad noted with disapproval.

Shepard shook her head slightly. "Oh, it has a purpose. Just not as a test of skill."

"How can it be otherwise?" he demanded.

Shepard stopped and looked at him. "Because it's not challenging. It's relaxing. Meditative."

She started walking again. "It clears my head."

"Meditative," rumbled the kossith, thoughtfully. "Yes. There is truth in that."

"Glad you see it my way," Shepard grinned. She stopped before the far parapet and hunkered down next to her market bag, fishing around inside for more produce.

"Ah. A half-rotten tomato. This should make a lovely mess," she murmured, setting it atop the ledge.

The qunari watched her silently as she set out two tomatoes, another apple, and a small, wrinkly, dimpled fruit that smelled like ripe cheese. She wrinkled her nose at the last.

"At least this one I don't have to feel bad about. Nobody in their right mind would eat something like this," she commented.

"You have an odd choice of targets, basra."

Shepard shrugged. "I like to shoot things that react. I've always liked that better than shooting holographic targets." She smiled. "In basic, a bunch of us got plastered and shot plastic milk jugs and water balloons filled with regulation red rehydration juice. Made a hell of a mess. We got our asses busted and had to clean latrines for the rest of basic."

"I do not understand. You speak strangely," the ashaad complained. "What was the purpose of your actions?"

"Ah, _right_," said Shepard, sadly. "Sorry. That would be one of those _fun_ things your people don't seem to grasp."

Shepard turned back to the bag and withdrew four of the small, rock-like limes. With care and a touch of whimsy, she set one atop each of the other fruits. When she got to the strange, smelly fruit, the lime clearly wanted nothing to do with the proceedings, and promptly rolled off, coming to rest against the ashaad's foot.

He stooped and picked it up, rolling it in his fingers. "A difficult target."

Shepard's brow furrowed. Unthinkingly, she said, "What? It's not even a hundred meters."

The ashaad's brows rose. "This is not an average distance that you shoot?"

"Not with this gun," Shepard answered. "Five hundred is what I _like_ to shoot, a thousand if I'm really wanting to work on my skills."

"A thousand yards? You could not even see your target at that distance." the qunari demanded.

"Depends on the target," Shepard shrugged. "Something like that, I couldn't - not unaided. But I've got a scope - that's something like a spyglass - that lets me make precision shots at great distance. That's what I do, what I specialize in."

The ashaad made a humming noise, and stalked to one side of the rooftop. "I will observe," he said.

Shepard frowned. "Range safety says I don't shoot if there's a person down range."

The ashaad held up the lime and looked from it to Shepard. "You can make an effort not to hit me, basra," he said dryly.

Shepard blinked. "Was that a _joke_?" she asked, incredulously. "Did I just hear you _crack_ a _joke_?"

"No," said the ashaad. "Go, take your place," he added abruptly. "This I wish to see."

Shepard pondered the possibility that there was such a thing as qunari humor as she trekked back to her crate. Knowing she had an audience, Shepard took slightly more care in setting up her first shot, neatly picking the first lime off the top of the rotten tomato. When the rifle had cooled, she eliminated the tomato itself, grinning at the spray of red pulp and seeds.

She continued down the line in the same fashion, ending with the stink-fruit, which erupted with a spray of dark seeds and terrific stench.

"Ugh," Shepard cried as the breeze brought the odor to her. "That's _foul_."

Even the ashaad seemed to think so, his normally impassive face showing a trace of disgust when Shepard drew near enough to see it.

"You are skilled, basra," he acknowledged grudgingly, as Shepard began setting out the last of her targets. "Do other bas share your skill?"

Shepard paused for a moment, and squinted up at him. "You mean are there other snipers, or other snipers as good as I am?"

"I have not seen a bas as skilled as you," the ashaad frowned. "I did not expect to."

She turned back to her task, breaking a carrot in pieces to make multiple targets. "Where I come from, yes, there are other people who can do what I do, and some who can do it as well as I do." She put the final piece on the parapet and stood up, collecting her empty bag and giving the ashaad a level stare. "But I doubt there are many who can do it better."

The ashaad followed her back to her firing line. "What about you, Ashaad?" Shepard asked, gently needling the giant. "I've seen people here in Thedas shoot from a similar distance. Want to take a shot?"

"If you wish, basra," he responded, although the speed with which he unshipped his bow belied his disinterested tone.

"Just a second," Shepard stalled him, getting settled at her crate. "I want to watch through the scope."

She tipped her head, cheek just brushing the stock. "Go ahead."

The qunari drew the bow with a creak of wood and a faint hum on the edge of hearing that spoke of material stress. When he loosed the string, it made a plangent sound and in the scope Shepard watched as the first target - a small lemon - was neatly skewered through the exact center.

"Nice," she commented, approvingly. With the draw and release of her breath, Shepard took the next target, an apple.

The third target was the lime that refused to play last round. Shepard heard the qunari make a muttering sound under his breath, and she looked back at him. His eyes were squinted almost shut, the string of his bow making a crease in face as he held it taut.

"Skip the lime," she told him. "Take the target after it."

The ashaad ignored her, and released the string. Shepard quickly dropped her eye to the scope and saw the arrow hit the lime slightly off center, spinning arrow and lime back onto the roof.

"A hit," she confirmed. "But not clean. Here," she motioned for him to come to her side, scooting over so he could take her place.

The kossith gave her a puzzled look, but squatted at her side nonetheless. "A scope makes all the difference," she told him. "You're having to adjust for wind and distance by eye, which is hard to do. Plus, I bet that arrows are affected a lot more by wind than bullets are." She gave him a curious glance. "What is the maximum range on a long bow anyway?"

Shepard noticed for the first time that the ashaad's eyes were a deep red-orange, like the juice from a blood orange.

"Four hundred yards," rumbled the archer.

"No shit?" Shepard gaped. "That's fucking _impressive_, qunari."

She held out her rifle. "Why don't you give it a try?"

The ashaad looked positively scandalized by the offer. It was as if she'd offered to let him fuck her sister - not that she had one, but still.

"It is _your_ weapon," he protested.

Shepard blinked. "So? You're a soldier, aren't you?"

His lips and brows drew downward in a deep frown. "No qunari would allow another to use his weapon."

"I wouldn't let just anybody handle my guns, but another soldier… another soldier I liked," she amended, "or a friend…"

"It is not done," the ashaad stated flatly. "Your weapon is part of you."

She tilted her head. "You really never let another person handle your weapons? _Ever_?"

The ashaad made a reluctant grunt. "We may allow a kadan to clean our weapon for us. It is a sign of great trust."

"Well," Shepard smiled, "consider this a sign of my trust, then."

The qunari was clearly still not pleased by the thought of using another's weapon, but Shepard thought she could detect just a hint of curiosity as well.

"C'mon," she urged.

Reluctantly, the giant accepted the rifle from her.

"Good," she said, grinning. "Now, sit."

"Sit?" The expression on the rugged face darkened.

"Yeah, sit," she answered. "On your bottom." When the kossith made no move to do so, she sighed. "It's more stable than crouching, and you've never shot a rifle before."

The ashaad glowered at her briefly, but complied. Shepard adjusted the position of his hand on the pistol grip, tapping his index finger gently. "This finger out," she instructed. As he straightened the digit, she guided it into place just over the trigger guard. "When you're ready to shoot, you will bring it down and lay it against the trigger, here, like this," she laid her finger over his, and then slipped it down to settle lightly on the trigger.

She moved around to the other side of the giant. "Bring the butt of the stock up against your shoulder. Snug. You don't want any space between them." Shepard pantomimed the action. "Rest your other elbow on the crate. Now, lean forward just a bit so that you can support the barrel with your left hand… yes, like that."

Deftly, Shepard made small adjustments to the qunari's position until she was satisfied. "Now," she told him, "tilt your head until you can look through this bit here," she tapped the scope.

The ashaad did as she instructed, but then jerked his head up, squinted at the distant targets, and then slowly lowered his head again. "This is… different," he grumbled.

"It's a lot easier than what you do, in some respects. At least at this distance," Shepard admitted. "Just give it a chance." She, too, squinted down range.

"Pick your target," she instructed. "The scope will adjust your aim to compensate for distance, and the wind won't be a factor at this range, so where you aim is where your shot will go."

She crouched beside him again. "When you've got your target, take a slow, deep breath in, pull the stock firmly against your shoulder, and drop your finger on to the trigger. Then let your breath out, and at the end of the breath, squeeze your finger on the trigger."

Shepard watched the qunari inhale, and saw him drop his finger to the trigger. She found herself breathing with him, exhaling long and slow, and grinned widely as the rifle fired and the ashaad grunted as his shoulder absorbed the recoil.

"Great!" she enthused. "Now, do it again."

The giant turned his red eyes on her. "It… jumps," he said. "Much like the gaatan."

"Gaatan?" Shepard asked. She tipped her head and raised an eyebrow. "Cannon?" she guessed. "Things that use your gaatlok to fire projectiles?"

"Yes."

"Mmm," Shepard made a humming noise of assent. "This is a similar principle, and the same physical laws of force apply." She pointed a finger at him. "Get that stock up against your shoulder again before you fire. If you don't, that jump - recoil - will give you a nasty bruise."

He did so. Again, Shepard breathed with him - a habit, she realized, remembering that she did the same thing when target shooting with Garrus - the real Garrus.

"Excellent!" she said, as the heat sink began its slow cooling tick. "Finger off the trigger - lay it on top of the trigger guard like I showed you - good." She reached out. "Now, let me see how you did."

He passed over the rifle, and she peered through the scope. Another lime was missing - she had to assume a clean shot on it - and the raw and ragged half of an apple attested to a shot pulled slightly to the left. "Not bad," she commented. "The scope makes it a lot easier, doesn't it?"

"Is it always? You claim that there are not many as skilled as you. Are they incompetent, or does the difficulty increase?"

Shepard snorted. "Oh, believe me, it gets harder. The range on this gun is easily fifteen hundred meters - shit, what is that in yards? Sixteen hundred? Sixteen hundred and fifty? Something like that. So, almost a mile." She sighted on a broken bit of carrot. "And the further away you get, the more slight changes in your position matter."

The carrot spun off into space.

"The apple you shot, for instance. You moved the gun a tiny bit to the left when you fired - probably not even enough for you to notice - so the shot was not exactly centered. The further away you are, the greater the effect of little things like that."

A second bit of carrot simply turned into tiny orange flecks in the air.

"So your ultimate goal is to make every single shot the same. The same tension in your muscles. The same amount of breath in your lungs. The same feel on the trigger. The same _everything_."

The last carrot bit - the very tip, not more than one and a half centimeters in diameter at its widest, was the final target. Shepard let everything else fall away for a moment as she concentrated, but found herself acutely aware of her body as her muscle memory provided exact instructions for firing.

"It is the same with the bow," the ashaad admitted, as Shepard shifted Garrus into high ready.

Shepard nodded. "That makes sense." She folded the rifle and clipped it to her backplate. "Out of curiosity - one soldier to another - do you typically aim for center mass when shooting an enemy, or do you pick a specific target, like the heart, or throat?"

"I aim as the situation demands," he replied. "As should you."

She grinned at him. "Shit," she said jokingly, "I let you shoot my gun twice and you're an expert on sniping?"

"Do you deny that I am right?" he countered.

Shepard laughed. "No. _But_…" she gave him a sly glance through her eyelashes. "I have to admit to a… _particular…_ fondness for headshots."

The ashaad's face was expressionless. "It is possible that the situation demands such a shot slightly more often than strictly necessary," he said in a carefully neutral voice.

"_Ashaad!_" Shepard exclaimed. "Be careful. Next thing you know, you might just start having _fun_."

The red-orange eyes glittered at her.

"I will consider your advice, basra."

"Please do."

**-ooo-**

"How do your studies progress?"

Shepard shook her head at the prince of Starkhaven. "I have a totally new appreciation for the art of scholarship as practiced in pre-computerized societies," she said dryly. "Trying to compile information from books rather than files is depressingly tedious."

Varric chuckled. "And that's why I rarely bother myself with non-fiction," the dwarf declared. "If you're going to spend hours practicing your literacy, you might as well be entertained by it."

Shepard flopped into one of Varric's low chairs. "When this is all over, I don't think I'll ever want to see another print book as long as I live."

"I suppose it's a good thing you try so hard to get yourself killed, then," Hawke commented. "Any clues as to where we all came from, yet?"

The Spectre raised a hand to her head and massaged one temple. "Humans seem to have come to Thedas from the north in small bands or tribes long before even the beginning of the Tevinter Empire… er, Imperium. Nobody seems to know where they came from exactly, and from comments the Arishok made it doesn't sound like it was the same continent the qunari came from."

She sighed. "Between the histories and the astronomical data, I _can_ tell you that your solar year is shorter than an Earth solar year - maybe only three-quarters as long. Not that it makes any real difference - there's still no way you're a lost colony, or anything."

Sebastian gave her a sympathetic look. "I'm sorry this is proving so difficult for you, Shepard," he said.

"I don't know what I expected," Shepard said wearily. "_And in the seventh year of the Age of the Scabby Yak, ships descended from the sky, carrying more of our people to the new land…_" She waved a hand, "Or maybe even_, and lo, there was a spear of light as blue as the heavens, and we were suddenly alone in a vast wilderness of trees and rock_."

The prince of Starkhaven frowned slightly. "Where did you find mention of an Age of the Scabby Yak?"

"I was making shit up," Shepard told him. "As far as I know, none of your histories have had an Age of the Scabby Yak." She snorted. "Maybe I should ask the Arishok, just to be sure that the qunari haven't had one."

"What, exactly," said Varric, "is a scabby yak?"

Shepard looked at him in surprise. "A yak with a bad skin condition, of course."

Varric sighed. "You will try to be funny, won't you, Starkiller?"

"A yak is a large, even-toed ungulate, with big horns and lots and lots and lots of hair. Like an ox with a terrible wig," Shepard made a face. "Satisfied?"

"You're in a foul temper tonight," Hawke noted. "Varric, do you have any of that brandy left? I like Shepard better after her third brandy."

"Mmm, so do I," said Isabela with a lascivious little smile. "But is someone going to get out the damn cards, already?"

"We're still waiting on the others."

Sebastian stood up. "I believe that would be my cue to take my leave," he said.

"You don't have to go, you know," Hawke reminded him gently. "I'm sure Andraste wouldn't mind if you spent an evening with your friends."

"Andraste would not," Sebastian smiled, a trifle ruefully. "However, truth be told, your card nights remind me all too much of the emptiness of my life before the Chantry; drinking, gambling and whoring."

"Sounds like a rather _full_ life to me," Isabela retorted.

Sebastian shook his head. "I realize now that my life was nothing without the peace of the Maker," he said solemnly.

Isabela tipped her head curiously. "You really don't miss it? Not even a little?" she demanded.

Shepard was watching Sebastian's face closely, and she caught the barest flicker of his eyes toward Hawke, the tiniest hint of a flush suffusing his neck. "Not at all," he said.

The pirate must have caught it as well. "Liar," she laughed. "But better a liar than a fool."

The flush deepened, and the prince ducked his head to hide it. "Enjoy your evening, my friends," he said, and hastily retreated through the door.

"Oh, Choir Boy," murmured Varric. "He does torture himself so."

"I can't imagine the Maker would really hold a few ales and a couple of rounds of Diamondback against him," Hawke agreed.

Isabela gave her a thoughtful look. "I don't think that's what he's afraid of."

Hawke rolled her eyes. "Like _that's_ ever going to happen…"

"If it does, I expect an invitation," the pirate insisted.

"Do you really think he'll leave the Chantry to take back his throne?" Shepard asked with mild interest. "It seems to me that the Chantry has become something of a security blanket for him."

"What's a security blanket?" Hawke wanted to know.

"You know… like a little kid with a favorite blanket, or a toy, I guess." Shepard's eyes fell on Griffon, and she gestured toward the mabari with her chin. "Like Griffon and his stuffed sheep."

The dog lifted his head and gave Shepard a tip-tilt look.

"What?" Shepard said. "You know it's true. Hawke's told me all about your fuzzy lamb dependency."

Griffon got to his feet, shook himself, and very deliberately lay down with his back to the Spectre.

"Ohhh, looks like someone got his sensitive little ego bruised," Shepard teased. "Isn't that just like a man?"

"Hey," protested Varric.

Hawke's eyes sparkled. "Is someone _else_ getting his sensitive little ego bruised?"

Varric put on an offended look. "I do not have a _sensitive little ego_," he said with dignity. "It's a great big damned ego."

The ladies laughed, and Anders snorted from the doorway. "I've heard _that_ before. Between the Wardens and the Circle, if I had a sovereign for every time someone told me how big an ego they had…"

"You'd be the healer of Hightown instead of the healer of Darktown?"

Anders shrugged. "Well, probably not. Apostate, remember?"

"I'd protect you," Hawke declared affectionately.

"And who would protect you, Hawke?" Fenris asked, stalking past the mage and into the room.

Varric shook his head. "I don't know, Hawke," he said. "Maybe we should just lock Broody and Starkiller in a room together and let them pound each other senseless."

Fenris stopped, and his eyebrows rose sharply. "Excuse me?"

"That… didn't come out right," Varric acknowledged. "Although… that might work, too. Put you both in a better mood, anyway."

Fenris glanced at Shepard, who gave him a tiny shake of her head that said, _don't look at me, I didn't come up with it_.

He relaxed marginally. "Are you having trouble with the qunari?" he asked.

"No," Shepard answered. "Just feeling a little put out that nobody left a computer behind somewhere with all the information I need on it."

"Computer?"

Shepard tapped her left forearm.

"Ah," the elf gave a half nod. "How inconsiderate of them," he added.

Isabela gave a sharp bark of laughter. "If someone had, it would either have been confiscated by the Chantry or the magisters, or have been passed down as some kind of royal relic or something."

Hawke straightened in her chair. "Hmmm…"

All eyes turned to the rogue, who was tapping her lower lip thoughtfully.

"Well?" demanded Isabela.

"That reminds me of something," Hawke said slowly. "I got this cryptic letter some time ago, talking about the collection at some place called the Black Emporium. Varric did a bit of digging for me, and found out that it's run by a man named Xenon the Antiquarian, and houses all kind of rare antiquities and unique oddities. I've meant to go a dozen times, just to satisfy my curiosity, but always seem to forget about it."

"You think this Xenon might have something that would help me?" Shepard scratched the back of her neck, where tiny hairs had begun to prickle at Hawke's words.

The rogue shrugged. "Not really," she said with a smile.

Varric frowned. "Actually, Hawke, it's not a bad idea. According to my sources, Xenon is supposed to be hundreds of years old. Even if he doesn't have anything helpful, maybe he might have heard of something that could help Starkiller."

"Sounds a little bit like the Wonders of Thedas, back in Denerim," Anders said thoughtfully. "Some of the things that wound up there were amazing."

"Where's this place at?" Shepard asked. The prickle had only intensified.

Hawke made a face. "Down in the bowels of Darktown, evidently. It's all very secretive," she said. "There's a map on the back of the letter, and a little charm that is supposed to let me get past the doors."

"And you still have the letter?"

Hawke nodded. "It's still somewhere on my desk. Like I said, I've meant to go, but it seems every time I plan to finally do it, something else crops up. Problems with the qunari, trouble at the Bone Pit, missing women, kidnapped elves, disappearing Gray Wardens… you name it."

"That's what you get for being capable in this town," Varric told her.

"It beats the boredom," Hawke said with a shrug. "And my mother's attempts to marry me off."

"Just think, if you were a man, all the eligible ladies in Hightown would be after you."

"Golddiggers, you mean," snorted Isabela. "At least whores are _honest_ about wanting your money."

"I'd have a much more active love life," Hawke pouted. "It might be nice to be lusted after for a change."

"Hawke, there are plenty of people that lust after you," Varric pointed out. "You're extremely lust-worthy."

Hawke propped her elbows on the table and set her chin in them, blinking coquettishly at the dwarf. "Why don't you tell me just _how_ lust-worthy," she purred.

"Great," said Shepard, interrupting the rogues' banter before it could degenerate further.

"We'll go tomorrow."

* * *

_A/N: Another short-ish chapter. This was supposed to go through the Black Emporium, but I've been struggling with writer's block and have been only managing a couple hundred words at a time. _

_Grr. Argh. _**So. Frustrating.**

_So... not knowing how long it's going to take me to get through the Black Emporium, I decided to call the chapter here. Besides, you all know by now that my chapter breaks make no sense._

_I'm going to go take my brain out to the woodshed and beat some sense into it now. The Super Nanny and her time outs can kiss my ass. Spare the rod and spoil the brain. Or something like that.  
_


	26. Chapter 25

**Chapter Twenty-Five**

"Well, this is creepy," muttered Varric, as the four of them cautiously entered the establishment known as the Black Emporium. Various wares were clustered haphazardly about the walls; some familiar - crates and chests, stands of armor and weapons - and others less so - a misshapen and oddly luminescent mirror that looked almost as if it had been through an intense fire, a twisted armoire crafted on the day the cabinet maker took fever. Some were both, like the statue of Andraste wearing naught but a billow of sheet loosely clasped in one alabaster hand at her hip, a small and secret smile upon her lips.

But what undoubtedly caused the dwarf's uneasy comment was the… thing… in the center of the space, bathed in a halo of light from what appeared to be an open rend in the ceiling. While it was possible the thing had been alive at one point, it certainly was no longer. It was propped upon a chair, a grotesque mass of mummified flesh and tangled limbs - far too many limbs - with sunken eyesockets and mouth gaping wide in a perpetual scream.

"Ugh," said Hawke quietly. "Can you imagine someone buying something like that to put in their library?"

Not far from the door stood a silent, immobile hunk of stone in vaguely human form.

"More golems?" Shepard asked, eyeing it warily.

"That golem's name… is Thaddeus Gigantus Crumbum the Third," quavered a voice from nowhere and everywhere at once, lapsing into a throaty chuckle. "He's my… favorite."

"Did I say creepy?" Varric amended. "I meant horrifyingly wrong on every level."

"Where is the voice coming from?" asked Isabela, peering behind the golem.

"Xenon?" asked Hawke, addressing the air for lack of another focus.

"Welcome… to the Black… Emporium," the voice breathed. "I am the great… and magnificent Xenon… the Antiquarian."

"It's so rare to have company," it continued, with a disturbing attempt at pleasantry. "Well, _living_ company, at any rate."

Varric shuddered and leaned closer to Hawke. "Is there any way I can get out of here quickly without betraying my cool exterior?"

Hawke pursed her lips in thought. "No," she said after a moment, "I don't think there is."

"Damn."

Isabela had moved on to the statue of Andraste. "Now, this I like," she said warmly. "If this was the official statue of the Maker's Bride, I, for one, would visit the Chantry more often."

The voice boomed out of the ether again. "Do not _fondle_ Andraste!"

"Isabela!"

"What?" exclaimed the pirate defensively, "I was only checking…"

Isabela moved on, the swish of her hips speaking of nonchalance, but the sharpness of her eyes missing nothing. Shepard hoped that all three rogues had enough sense to keep their hands to themselves. As she paused beside a heap of… _stuff_, Xenon's voice crackled at her.

"I'm tired of those plebeian items! Take what you like. No charge." There was a rasping inhalation, and the voice suddenly yelled out forcefully, as if Shepard had thought to argue. "No charge, you hear me!"

Varric backed up. He was beginning to feel the need to have a nice, solid wall at his back. Instead, he encountered yielding flesh. He yelped, and whirled around.

"Don't," instructed the voice of Xenon sharply, "_manhandle_ the… urchin. He's _not_… for sale."

Indeed, Varric found himself looking at a young towheaded human child, a boy of maybe eight years. The boy gave him a wan smile.

"Find your own!" snapped Xenon.

Hawke was examining the horrid thing in the center of the room, peering intently at it from several angles, clearly trying to work out its purpose. Isabela had spied a monstrously large tome resting on a crate on the other side of the room, and was making for it with her fingers outstretched eagerly, as if she expected it to be the latest installment of _Hessarian's Spear_.

But Shepard was experiencing a familiar tug at her senses. Not the normal five, but the one that lived somewhere deep in her gut and in the most primitive layers of her brain.

_There's something here. Something important._

Ignoring the others, Shepard wandered to the back of the room. There was a worktable here, cluttered with items she vaguely recognized - a mortar and pestle, a small porcelain crucible held over an unlit retort - and various bunches of dried herbs and flowers, as well as less wholesome looking ingredients floating in thick glass jars. Shepard could swear that in one of them, a tiny dragon stared sightlessly out at her.

_This isn't it. But… it's close. So close._

A nearby corner was cluttered with objects. Xenon's voice boomed forth again, reminding Shepard of nothing so much as the Wizard of Oz. "Those rare, enchanted goods," he said, "are the prizes of my collection." The voice paused. "Mostly socks. You can never have enough socks."

_Ignore the man behind the curtain…_

Shepard's skin began to prickle, and the hairs on the back of her neck were standing straight up. There seemed to be a faint hum on the very edge of hearing. The feeling was disturbingly familiar.

Varric hovered at Hawke's side, trying to convince himself it was out of a sense of protectiveness. "Hawke, I don't think you should be messing with that," he said quietly. "You might catch something."

"Let me know what you'd like… to purchase," Xenon's voice said expansively. "Looking this… dapper costs a lot of gold."

"Uh, Varric," Hawke whispered in a voice that nonetheless carried to the corners of the room, "I think _that's_ Xenon."

"All the more reason not to mess with it, then."

Shepard pushed slowly through the goods, carefully skirting a glowing chunk of crystalline lyrium. At the very back of the jumble, next to an intricately carved wooden sarcophagus, she found what she was looking for, all graceful lines and smooth black luster.

A Prothean beacon.

**-ooo-**

"What is that?" Isabela asked, as Shepard began to clear space around the base of the beacon.

"An ancient… and powerful artifact," intoned Xenon. "Said to possess… great arcane knowledge." The voice paused, and added petulantly, "It's never worked properly."

Shepard smiled grimly. "Good thing. They have a disturbing tendency to explode."

"Explode?" repeated Varric.

"Yes," replied Shepard. "And there's also the slight problem that a human attempting to use one can suffer irreparable brain damage. They're not designed for humans."

"Have I mentioned that… prices are… negotiable?" offered Xenon hopefully.

"Oh, I was just checking to see if it was still intact," said Shepard, off-handedly. "It is." She stood and dusted her gauntleted hands on her thighs. "Pity. It's far too dangerous to me in this state…"

"Perhaps a… discount?" breathed the proprietor's voice. "For you… I will make a special… offer." He paused briefly. "Purchase one of… my other… treasures, and you may take the arcane pillar as my… gift," Xenon said magnanimously.

"I don't know," said Shepard skeptically, putting her head on one side. "It's an awful risk… Jostling it around might set it off prematurely."

"Delivery… included," added Xenon. "You are clearly… a scholar of some note. A woman after my own heart." Another pause. "_Figuratively,_ I presume."

"I don't know," Shepard said again, with a shake of her head. She motioned to Hawke to look around. "Was there anything in particular you were interested in?"

Hawke was staring at Shepard in a kind of fascination, a tiny smile curving the corners of her lips. "What?" she asked, giving herself a tiny shake. "Oh, of course. Let me finish looking."

In the end, Hawke selected four items, plus a few reagents she thought might interest Anders.

"And… where would you like your… gift to be delivered?" inquired Xenon.

Shepard tapped her jaw thoughtfully. "I certainly don't want it to go to my place," she said. "And I doubt you'd want to risk your own estate, Hawke. How about… yes, there's that abandoned mansion in Hightown. Just the place."

Varric gave her a sour look. "You do know the… ah… spirits… that live there might not take kindly to the intrusion?"

Shepard waved a hand. "I'll bring them a bottle of wine. Nothing settles angry spirits like a good red wine."

"And if that thing explodes?"

"Did you want me to take it to the Hanged Man, instead?"

"Good point. The mansion it is."

**-ooo-**

"I think it's going to take more than a bottle of wine to placate Broody, Starkiller," Varric warned as they made their way back to the surface streets of Kirkwall. "After all, you might end up blowing up his home, such as it is."

"No she won't," said Hawke, confidently.

"What do…" the dwarf began. The penny dropped. "You were bluffing?!"

"Not entirely," Shepard replied, primly. "The first one I encountered _did_ explode. And they _aren't_ designed for humans." She shrugged. "But while I'd love to have Liara here - she's an expert on this kind of technology - I _have_ used these things before. It should be safe enough." She paused. "Mostly."

"So it really_ is _something from your world?" Isabela asked curiously. "_From a whole other world…_"

"Not mine. It's prothean. They were the last race to be destroyed by the Reapers. But it does verify that the protheans were here at some point."

"What is it?" Varric asked. "Exactly."

"It's a prothean beacon. The protheans used them to communicate over vast distances," Shepard explained.

"So, what? It'll help you send a letter back home?" Varric's voice was a trifle sarcastic.

"No," Shepard rolled her eyes. "The beacons haven't worked like that for over fifty thousand years. Now they simply act like storage devices - holding old messages, sometimes old data or information."

"So Xenon was right." Hawke said. "It really _does_ contain arcane knowledge."

Shepard laughed shortly. "I wouldn't call it arcane. But I am hoping it contains information I can use."

"Do you think it will tell you how you got here? Or how humans got here?" Hawke juggled her purchases into a slightly more comfortable position.

Shepard sighed. "I don't know. It might only have the warning about the Reapers on it. That's all the first one I found had. But it looks intact and undamaged, so who knows?"

"You think the people who left it were the ones that brought humans to Thedas?" Varric asked.

"N-no," Shepard shook her head. "I don't. It doesn't quite fit all the facts. But I guess it's still a possibility."

"Why not? This is the proof they were here, isn't it?" Hawke questioned.

"Because humans were still living in very primitive hunter-gatherer societies fifty thousand years ago," Shepard said. "It doesn't explain why your languages are so similar to the European romance languages, or why your culture reflects historical European culture. It would make more sense for humans to have been brought here later, closer to the start of so-called western civilization."

"Why couldn't these protheans have brought humans here later?" Isabela asked. "Just because this… beacon thing is fifty billion years old doesn't mean they couldn't have come back later, does it?"

"Thousand," corrected Hawke. "Fifty thousand."

"Whatever," Isabela waved a hand dismissively.

Shepard gave Hawke a smile. "Technically, the beacon could be far older than fifty thousand years. It's just that the protheans were killed off roughly fifty thousand years ago, so we know it has to be _at least_ that old." She glanced at the pirate. "And that answers your question, Isabela. The protheans couldn't have brought humans here more recently, because they were all dead."

_Except for one, who was frozen_. But no sense in confusing everyone any further.

Hawke took a different grip on her packages. "Is it just me, or does it make you feel very… I don't know… _stupid?_… to think all sorts of people from other worlds have been coming to Thedas and we never guessed."

"Stupid isn't the right word," Varric responded dryly. "Try _paranoid_."

"Don't feel bad," Shepard told him. "The protheans basically camped out on the world next door for who-knows-how-long, watching and studying humans on Earth, and we had no clue. And, up until we ran into the turians about thirty years ago, there were still a lot of people who firmly believed we were the only intelligent species left in the galaxy since the protheans died out."

"Hold on, I need to put this down a moment," Hawke said, once again shuffling things around.

Varric reached out and took the smaller of her two ungainly objects. "You could have just asked for help," he said.

"They're not that heavy, just awkward," Hawke protested defensively.

"I still can't believe you bought _that_," said Isabela to Hawke, as the latter shifted the large, paper-wrapped parcel she still carried.

"I didn't buy it for me," Hawke told her. "I bought it for mother."

Varric raised an eyebrow. "You think your mother will really like a terrible portrait painted on velvet?" he asked. "Who is it supposed to be, anyway?"

Hawke looked mildly offended. "It's King Cailan," she said with dignity. "Mother loved King Cailan. She always said he was more handsome than his father, and that marrying Anora Mac Tir was beneath him, even if her father _was_ a hero."

"I suppose it's a good thing he's dead, then," said Varric. "Otherwise, she might get royal ambitions in marrying you off."

Hawke snorted. "She's already asked me twice what I thought about Seamus Dumar, despite the fact that Bran would slit his own throat before he'd allow the Viscount to have anything to do with my family."

Isabela gurgled with laughter. "I take it she doesn't know the truth about Sebastian."

"She knows plenty of truth about Sebastian," Hawke replied tartly. "Like the part where he's taken a vow of celibacy."

"You could work on that, you know," Isabela gave Hawke a sly glance through her lashes. "He's definitely attracted."

Hawke sighed. "Isabela, we've been over this. First, what kind of friend would I be if I pushed him into something he would only later regret?" Hawke paused, and scowled deeply. "And second… he runs away and prays every time I try."

"That does make it more difficult," Isabela acknowledged.

**-ooo-**

Shepard cautiously eased open the door to the dilapidated mansion Fenris called home. From her previous visit, she knew that the elf made his quarters in the former master suite, upstairs, so she headed for one of the curving staircases to the second floor, two bottles of very fine wine tucked under her arm.

"Fenris?" Shepard pitched her voice so that it would carry without her having to shout. "You home?"

"I am indeed," said a voice from behind her, nearly startling Shepard into dropping the wine.

She spun, unable to keep herself from dropping into a defensive crouch, even as she recognized his voice. "Dammit, Fenris, make some noise next time!"

"I suppose that is a compliment, of sorts," he said, a ghost of a smile flitting over his lips. He set his head to one side slightly. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" he asked, with a glance at the bottles under her arm.

Shepard smiled at him. "Open bribery," she admitted, holding out one bottle at a time for his inspection.

The elf's eyebrows rose as he noted the labels, taking one of the bottles from the Spectre and returning his eyes to hers.

"Bribery?"

"I need to use your mansion."

His face immediately took on a troubled expression. "For what?"

"I found a… an artifact that might contain information that can help me. But I need someplace private and empty to examine it." Shepard shifted a little uncomfortably. "And, well, I have to be honest - there is a slight chance that it could explode."

The troubled expression didn't fade, but a certain shade of bemusement colored it. "And you thought of me?"

"Not _you_, no. But here." Shepard met his eyes unflinchingly. "Please, Fenris."

Fenris stared at her for longer than she'd hoped before his eyes dropped and he said, "Where is it?"

Shepard let out her breath slowly. "It's being dropped off tomorrow," she said.

The elf's body stiffened. "Dropped off?"

"It's large," Shepard told him. "Taller than a man, and probably heavier. But don't worry," she hastened to add, "you don't have to be here. We're maintaining the fiction that this place is abandoned."

"Aveline has assured me that particular fiction has fallen by the wayside," Fenris snorted. "Her office routinely gets complaints about my presence."

"I really am sorry to have to ask," Shepard apologized. "You can say no, you know, and I can try to find an empty warehouse somewhere. Isabela might know of one."

Fenris sighed. "No," he said. "As I said, my presence here is well-known." His eyes pierced hers again, intently. "You and I may disagree frequently, but I have come to…" there was a hitch in his voice that suggested he'd edited himself, "…respect you. If you need my assistance - or, my roof, in this case - it is yours."

"Thank you, Fenris," Shepard said sincerely, gently clasping his arm with her free hand. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate it." She smiled again, and gestured with the one bottle she still held. "But I hope that I can show you, at least a little."

"Yes," the elf drawled. "You can indeed. These are very fine vintages."

"Working with Hawke has its privileges," Shepard noted dryly. "If there is anything of value to be found, she'll find it, and she's generous about sharing."

The ghost-smile came and went again. "I have noted that myself."

"I thought you might have."

**-ooo-**

The small group stared at the smooth pillar. Anders was present, at Shepard's request, and Hawke couldn't be kept away. Fenris, too, had expressed an interest in watching the proceedings.

"Is everyone ready?" Shepard asked.

Anders frowned. "Are you sure this is a good idea, Shepard?" His tone made it clear that what he really meant was, _I don't think this is a good idea, Shepard_.

"Relax," she said. "I wanted you here as a precaution. Each beacon I've activated has had progressively less dramatic of an effect on me. The last one wasn't a problem at all - probably because it was designed to be accessed by someone who wasn't prothean. It used a VI interface rather than just dumping information straight into your head." She frowned. "At the time, I rather wished it _had_ just dumped everything into my mind - one of our enemies was able to download the information and make off with it before I could access what we needed."

"It puts the information right into your mind?" asked Hawke, jaw sagging. "How can it do that?"

Shepard shrugged. "Protheans had some unique abilities. One of them was the ability to transfer experience through touch. For them, this kind of technology was just an extension of their own abilities."

"So you don't know either?"

"Nope."

"I feel _so_ much better," Anders muttered.

"Look," Shepard assured him. "The worst that's ever happened was the stupid thing blowing up and me ending up unconscious for fifteen hours. It will be fine."

Anders still didn't look convinced. "I don't call fifteen hours of unconsciousness fine," he grumbled.

"In comparison to some of the other things that have happened to me, fifteen hours of unconsciousness is nothing," Shepard retorted. "After all, we might get lucky and this one will have a VI interface as well." _Although I doubt it…_

"It's your call, Shepard," Anders said with a sigh. "I'll be here if it goes bad."

"Thanks, Anders," Shepard gave him a smile. Her voice became crisp. "Okay. I want everyone well clear of this until I give the word. If something does go wrong, don't approach me or the beacon until all activity has ceased."

"How will we know it's safe?" Hawke asked.

Shepard shrugged. "The others I've encountered glowed when they were activated. So, presumably, wait until everything - the beacon, me, everything - has gone dark. Even then, don't get too close to the beacon itself."

Her gaze traveled around the small group intently. "Got it?"

There were a few hesitant nods.

"I said, _GOT IT?_" she repeated sharply.

There were two _yes_es and a _got it_. Shepard told herself that the snappy _yes ma'am_ she was looking for was military in nature, and the lack thereof was not a sign of dissent in the ranks but rather a reminder that these weren't the ranks.

Shepard nodded, satisfied.

The others dropped back as Shepard strode up to the beacon, activating her omni-tool to scan it for the first time. It was possible that, despite appearances to the contrary, the thing was broken or inoperable. Previous beacons had not required much to activate, but the fact that this one remained inactive despite Xenon's attempts to access it indicated that Shepard might have to get crea…

The beacon flared into life, spearing Shepard in a brilliant blue beam that warped into a corona of light around her. She felt her feet leave the ground and braced herself, trying to make her mind receptive for what was to…

_Darkness._

**-ooo-**

Shepard blinked groggily. Her brain felt sunburned.

She was on her hands and knees, with Anders kneeling beside her.

"Shepard? Are you all right?" The healer's voice sounded distant.

"Guh," she responded brightly. "Nnggh."

"Shepard?!"

She blinked again, and lifted her head. Anders was relieved to see her focus sharpen.

"How long?" she croaked, fighting the urge to speak a language that had been dead for fifty thousand years. God, she hated that. Ever since Ilos, Shepard had been uncomfortably aware that she was the sole repository of an extinct language and culture. Finding Javik should have helped, except for her unconscious tendency to think in prothean when he was around. It was… disconcerting.

Shepard pushed herself back on her haunches and would have attempted to rise, but Anders stopped her with a hand on her shoulder, pushing her gently onto her backside.

"No, don't get up just yet," he cautioned. "How long what?"

"Was I out?"

Anders gave her a puzzled look. "You weren't, at least that I could see. But you looked awfully vacant when I first approached you."

He didn't know whether to be relieved or worried when she shot him a poisonous glare. "Then why didn't you wait for the all clear?" she snapped weakly.

Anders shrugged. "After you just sat there without moving for several minutes, I thought maybe I should check on you."

This did not seem like logic she could argue with, much as she'd like to. She glanced over to the beacon and was relieved to see it quiet and dark once again.

Anders followed her gaze. "The light went off, and you dropped like a stone," he explained. "Then you just stayed on your hands and knees, staring at the ground."

Shepard scrubbed a hand over her face. "How long was the beacon activated?"

Anders glanced back to Hawke and Fenris for confirmation. "I don't know… ten minutes, maybe?"

"Ten?" Shepard echoed. To the best of her knowledge, the longest she'd interacted with a beacon was four, if you didn't count arguing with the VI that called itself Vendetta on Thessia.

Hawke hunkered down beside them. "So?" she demanded, "Did you get anything?

Shepard dredged through her short term memory. "Mmm, yes," she answered, yawning. "The protheans were here studying the kossith, and the elves as well, I think, although the… images… are quite different than the elves now. They appear to have had high hopes for the kossith, but found the elves - or maybe the progenitors of the elves - not aggressive enough."

"Not aggressive enough for what?" asked Fenris.

"Toward the end of their war with the Reapers, the protheans planned to select several promising species out of those they'd discovered over the course of their civilization. They hoped to steer these species' development in such a way that, when the Reapers' cycle came around again, they would be able to combat the Reapers more effectively than in the protheans' cycle." Shepard replied.

"What would it matter to them? They'd all be dead, wouldn't they?" Hawke said incredulously.

Shepard smiled grimly. "Yes… and no. The protheans had a plan to put a hundred thousand of their finest warriors into cryogenic stasis - frozen - to be revived after their cycle ended but before the next began. These warriors would form the basis for a new Prothean Empire, and gather all the newly risen species under them as subject peoples."

"Sounds like something the magisters would do," grated Fenris.

"Maybe," said Shepard. "But from what I've read about the Imperium, the magisters are far more hedonistic. The protheans were highly militaristic, and not big on personal freedoms. For instance, consumption of alcohol and gambling were both punishable by death."

"Death?" exclaimed Hawke. "For having a pint?"

"Yep."

"But I thought you said that the protheans were all killed by the Reapers," protested Anders.

"They were." Shepard paused. "Well, all but one."

"One?" It was a chorus in three parts, baritone, tenor and alto.

"The prothean destined to lead the hundred thousand frozen warriors to a new Prothean Empire. His was the only stasis pod to survive intact. We found it and revived him." Shepard scratched at her head. "His name is Javik. Reminds me a bit of the qunari, to tell you the truth."

"Maybe that's why they were studying the kossith." Hawke suggested. "Because they reminded them of themselves."

"The kossith then weren't what they are now," Shepard cautioned. "Like the elves, they underwent some changes between then and now."

"Like?" prompted Hawke.

"Not as imposing. Still big, though. And much more aggressive. Much, much more. Less advanced than the elves were, technologically - they were tribal people when the protheans were studying them."

"Did any of the information suggest what happened to the elves to change them?" Fenris asked, eyes intent.

Shepard shifted, and rubbed at the back of her neck. "Not directly, but I think the protheans may have… tampered… with them."

"I see."

"I only say that because I know for sure they altered the asari. It's possible that they tampered with a number of species across the galaxy. Including humans."

Shepard yawned again. "There's more," she said through her yawn, "but it's all a bit scrambled. Liara once told me that the human mind instinctively fights direct contact, and that can make transfers like this a bit… jumbled. It takes some time to make sense of it all."

She glanced at the beacon again. "One thing I can tell you. There's more than just this beacon here."

"Somewhere on this planet, the protheans had a lab."

* * *

_A/N: Points to anyone to spot the X-Files reference._


	27. Chapter 26

**Chapter Twenty-Six**

Anders had made Shepard promise to rest the following day. She did her best, venturing out only to pick up some food at the bazaar, but idleness had never suited her. By the end of the day, she'd cleaned and oiled Garrus - _why, oh why had she named her rifle after her best friend_ - thoroughly cleaned and scanned her armor for damage, and run a full diagnostic on her omni-tool. When the healer came by in the afternoon to check up on her, she was reading through the slim volume loaned to her by the Arishok once again.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, as he checked the reaction of her pupils to light by shading them with his hand.

"About par for the course for having my brains scrambled by a prothean device," she answered. "Which is to say, my head feels like someone's been stomping around in it with heavy combat boots."

"Hmmm," murmured Anders, resting a hand against her neck to feel her pulse.

"Don't you hmmm me, mister," Shepard grumbled. "If the Normandy's doctor couldn't find anything wrong with me after a prothean mind oops, I doubt you'll be able to."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Anders asked defensively.

Shepard stared at him. "Last I knew, you didn't have any medical scanners. What, you've been hiding a medical imaging device in the pocket of your coat this whole time?"

Anders frowned. He folded his arms on his chest and leaned a hip against the footboard of Shepard's new bed. "So, what does your…" he gestured at her omni-tool, "…technology have to say about it?"

Shepard shrugged and pulled up the med scanner. "See for yourself," she said, briefly running the tool in front of her face and head and then extending it toward Anders.

Anders frowned, but unfolded his arms and pushed off the footboard, stepping forward to look at the scrolling information.

"What is this?" he said. "It's just a bunch of squiggly lines…"

"That's my brain activity," she told him.

"You can tell what someone is thinking with that thing?" he demanded incredulously.

"Oh yeah," Shepard said sarcastically, pointing to one of the lines. "That means I think a certain healer is hovering like an overprotective mother."

Anders opened his mouth to say something, and stopped, his eyes narrowing. "No it doesn't," he said. "You're making it up."

Shepard grinned. "Yep. Far as I know, nobody has technology that can tell what a person's actually thinking. Hell, most of the time _people_ don't even know what they're thinking _when_ they're thinking it."

She gestured with the 'tool. "This is just what my brain is _doing_, not what it's thinking." She glanced down and tapped at the interface. "According the the diagnostic, I have normal brain activity for a conscious and alert human, with slightly increased arterial vasodilation," she said. "Which probably accounts for the headache." She shrugged. "I appreciate the concern, Anders, but I'm fine."

Anders gave her a skeptical look. "Well, I suppose I can't argue with technology, can I?" he said dryly.

"Of course you can," Shepard said with a faint smile. "People do it all the time."

The healer snorted, and his gaze fell on the book Shepard had set beside her. "What are you studying?" he asked.

Shepard sighed and picked up the book again. "It's the basic tenets of the qun," she replied.

Anders raised an eyebrow. "Thinking of converting, are you?"

She snorted in response. "Hell, no. If I haven't found faith after thirty-two years of being kicked around by the universe, I'm not going to find it now. Besides," she added, "the Arishok believes I lack understanding. He calls me imekari, whatever that means."

"Child," replied Anders automatically.

At Shepard's quirked eyebrow, he explained. "There was a kossith merchant at Vigil's Keep for quite a while. I guess technically he was Tal-Vashoth, because he had broken away from the qun, but he wasn't violent in any way. All he cared about was making money." He shrugged. "I picked up a few words of their language from him."

Shepard looked offended. "Where does that horned bastard get off calling me a child?" she demanded. "I swear, he rivals Javik as the most arrogant asshole I've ever met."

"Javik being the frozen prothean?"

"Yeah. Protheans were pretty big on themselves, despite having their asses handed to them by the Reapers," Shepard still looked affronted by the revelation. "He called the rest of us _primitives_ an awful lot."

"You two didn't get along, I take it," Anders couldn't hide the twitch of a smile.

"I think it's safe to say that there were probably only half a dozen things we ever agreed on," Shepard acknowledged. "But apart from his overweening sense of superiority, we got along fine. He was… _is_… a hell of a soldier."

"And the Arishok?"

"I wouldn't know. I've never seen him fight. His men are pretty well trained, though," Shepard admitted.

Anders shook his head. "I meant how do you get along with him?"

"The Arishok?" Shepard said with surprise. "He tolerates my presence, sometimes. That's about all I can say."

The healer folded his arms again. "Varric makes it out like you two are great friends."

"I don't think the Arishok makes friends, per se. It seems to me that he either tolerates you, or he doesn't."

"And you?" Anders grinned. "You seem to tolerate him pretty well."

"Ha!" Shepard barked. "I did _mention_ the arrogance, didn't I? For the record, I think I've had some kind of argument with the Arishok just about every time I've ever spoken to him."

"So why this?" Anders gestured to the book.

Shepard's brow lifted. "Because I still need what he knows. Possibly even more, now that I know that the protheans were studying the kossith. The ruins of their lab may be somewhere in qunari-held territory."

"What, are you going to ask him if he knows about any fifty-thousand year old ruins made by people from another world?"

For some reason, this struck Shepard as incredibly funny.

"Maybe I should," she gasped between bouts of laughter. "Just to see what he says."

"_Vashedan_, probably," said the healer, with a grin.

"What does that mean? Bullshit?"

"Something like. I think the word Armaas used to translate was _crap_."

Shepard tilted her head. "Know any other swear words?" she asked curiously. "I'm always looking to expand my knowledge of exotic expletives."

"Why am I not surprised?"

"I'm a soldier, Anders," Shepard huffed. "It's an article of faith."

"What happened to being faithless?" Anders bantered.

"Well, there's faith, and there's _faith_…"

**-ooo-**

The following morning, Hawke dropped by, ostensibly to see if Shepard felt up to a little outing to collect some reagents and materials for Solivitus. After Shepard agreed, however, the rogue seemed hesitant to leave for the landward gate, where they were to meet up.

"Okay, Hawke," said Shepard, as the rogue wandered about the small room while the Spectre donned her armor. "What's up?"

Hawke raised an eyebrow. "Just a few darkspawn. Shouldn't be anything we can't handle," she answered. "Why?"

"You're pacing worse than a pubescent krogan who hasn't been allowed to kill anything for a week," Shepard folded her arms on her chest. "What's wrong?"

Hawke sighed. "Garrus. The friend you named your rifle after…" she paused, and Shepard winced.

"What about him?"

"You said he was your best friend, right? The person you were closest to?"

Shepard tipped her head slightly. "The person I was closest to was Thane, but we had a completely different relationship than Garrus and I. I had a number of close friends on the Normandy- Joker, Tali, Liara… but Garrus was definitely the closest. There was something about him… there_ is_ something about him…" she corrected herself sternly, "we just seem to, well, _resonate_ with one another. There's nobody I'd rather have on my six."

Hawke nodded absently. "Did you and Garrus ever have any… disagreements?" she asked hesitantly.

Shepard looked surprised. "Of course. As alike as we were in a lot of respects, we were two different people, and we each had our own opinions on things. Because I respected him, I always encouraged Garrus to tell me when he disagreed with something I was saying or doing. And he did. Usually humorously, but that was Garrus. _Is_ Garrus."

"I don't mean simply disagreeing. I mean…" Hawke gestured vaguely, "arguments." She paused, and shook her head. "No, more than that. _Fights_."

Hawke took a deep breath. "Shepard, did you ever have a moment where you looked into his eyes and wondered if you'd just broken the friendship past the point of repair?"

**-ooo-**

"_Sidonis?"_

_The turian started. "Don't ever say that name aloud," he cautioned, his hollowed eyes darting around nervously. It was clear to anyone who could read turians that this was a turian on the very edge. He looked as if he hadn't slept in weeks._

_**:**__Shepard, you're in my shot.__**:**__ Garrus snapped over the comm. _

"_I'm a friend of Garrus's," she told Sidonis levelly. "He wants you dead, but I'm hoping that's not necessary."_

"_G-garrus? Is this some kind of joke?" the turian stuttered nervously._

_**:**__Dammit, Shepard! If he moves, I'm taking the shot!__**:**_

"_You're not kidding, are you?" Sidonis began to back away, holding his hands up as if to ward her off. "_Screw_ this. I'm not sticking around here to find out. Tell Garrus I had my own problems…"_

_Shepard reached out and grabbed his arm before he could move out of the safety of the cover she provided. "Don't move!" she ordered._

_Sidonis jerked out of her grasp. "Get off me!"_

"_I'm the only thing standing between you and a hole in the head," Shepard hissed coldly._

_His whole body sagged. "Fuck." _

"_Look," he said desperately, "I didn't want to do it. I didn't have a choice."_

_The voice in her ear was harsh with condemnation. __**:**_Everyone_ has a choice.__**:**_

"_They got to me," Sidonis went on, shifting restlessly. "Said they'd kill me if I didn't help. What was I supposed to do?"_

_**:**__Let me take the shot, Shepard.__**: **__Garrus raged. __**:**__He's a damn coward!__**:**_

"_That's it?!" Shepard demanded. "You were just trying to save yourself?!" _

_Sidonis began to pace, probably an unconscious action, since Shepard's body was affording him every second of his continued existence. Shepard followed him, continuing to block her best friend's shot._

"_I know what I did," Sidonis said heavily. "I know that they died because of me, and I have to live with that."_

_Shepard could see him visibly trembling now. "I wake up every night, sick and sweating, each of their faces staring at me, accusing me." He took a breath. "I'm already a dead man," the ragged turian said, his voice as hollow as his eyes. "I don't sleep. Food has no taste. Some days," he lifted his head and stared out at nothing, "I just want it to be over."_

_**:**__Just give me the chance.__**:**__ Garrus seethed._

"_You need to let it go, Garrus," Shepard said gently, into the comm. "He's already paying for his crime."_

_**:**__He hasn't paid enough.__**:**__ Garrus's voice was tight, his subvocals strained. __**:**__He still has his life.__**:**_

"Look_ at him, Garrus," Shepard replied sharply. "He's not alive. There's nothing left to kill."_

_There was silence._

_**:**__My men…__**:**__ Garrus sounded broken. __**:**__They deserved better.__**: **_

"_Tell Garrus…" Sidonis began, and then sighed. "No. Spirits, there's nothing I can say to make it right."_

_Garrus's voice, weary, frustrated, defeated. __**:**__Just go… tell him to go.__**:**_

_Shepard looked at the empty shell of a man before her. "He's giving you a second chance, Sidonis," she said, her voice hard. "Don't waste it."_

_Sidonis turned, and looked past Shepard, to where he knew Garrus must be, even if he couldn't see the other turian. "I'll try, Garrus. I'll make it up to you, somehow."_

_He looked back down at Shepard. "Thank you," he said, "for talking to him."_

_Shepard's eyes narrowed. "I didn't do it for you, Sidonis," she said. "I did it for him."_

**-ooo-**

Shepard blinked herself back to the present.

"Yes," she admitted, her voice soft. "Once."

Hawke's shoulders slumped. "How did you fix it?" she asked, a hint of desperation in her voice.

_Varric. It has to be._

Shepard wondered what could possibly have happened to make the easy-going dwarf that angry with Hawke, and part of her hoped that the rogue was overreacting to a brief fit of pique.

_Right, Shepard. Like you couldn't tell the difference between Garrus being irritated and furious._

"I… didn't, exactly," Shepard said. "I just… gave him his space, and hoped that he'd think things through on his own time, and realize that what I did, I did because I cared about him. If he couldn't forgive the action, I hoped he'd at least recognize - and forgive - the intent."

Despite her worry, Hawke looked interested. "What did you do, exactly?"

Shepard smiled inwardly. That was Hawke. The day the rogue lost her insatiable curiosity would be the day someone put her in the ground. But the feeling of amused affection couldn't last in the face of her memories of Omega; of Archangel's last stand.

"While I was…" - _being ressurected_ - "…incapacitated… Garrus found his way to a place called Omega - a lawless shithole out on the fringes of the Terminus, filled with every kind of scum in the galaxy."

"Worse than Kirkwall?" Hawke put out, unable to stop herself.

Shepard nodded. "Kirkwall has a good side. It may only be slightly less tarnished than the bad side, but it's there. Omega does not."

She paused to collect her thoughts. "Over time, Garrus began to put together a team of vigilante justice-seekers. I'd call them a merc squad, but they didn't work for payment - they worked to bring a little justice, a little hope, to that rabid varren's den."

"In the end, there were twelve of them. Twelve men, fighting a hopeless war… and winning. The lesser criminal warlords of Omega were howling with frustration and cursing the name the locals had given him - Archangel."

Shepard looked down at the ground. "But he was betrayed from within. There's always a weak link, and in Garrus's team, that link was a turian named Lantar Sidonis. The warlords threatened his life, and in his fear, he agreed to betray his comrades - his _friends_ - and their leader."

"Sidonis lured Garrus away from their hideout, and his team was slaughtered. In his rage and grief, Garrus chose to make his last stand and avenge his squad. For three days, the warlords threw everything they could at him, but he held them off. The warlords, desperate to take him down, began to hire anyone with a gun. They knew that if they could just keep throwing bodies at him, eventually they'd wear him down to nothing. After all, Garrus had to be lucky dozens of times - the warlords only had to be lucky once."

"How did he escape?" Hawke asked, mouth slightly agape in astonishment.

"He had a little help on the inside," Shepard said with a faint smile. "Three of the guns the warlords bought weren't exactly what they seemed. And, just like that, a single man, exhausted and facing overwhelmingly superior numbers, was suddenly a crack military team holding a well-fortified and advantageous position against poorly trained cannon fodder."

"You?" Hawke guessed shrewdly.

"Me," Shepard nodded. "Of course, I didn't know it was Garrus at the time. I was there to recruit this fellow they called Archangel, who had shown some mighty impressive skills out there on Omega."

"You saved him and he didn't want to be saved?" Hawke surmised.

Shepard shook her head. "Oh, no. It wasn't that. I did save him - barely - and he joined me on my mission, but he was _consumed_ with a need to find Sidonis and exact revenge - although he called it justice - for what Sidonis had done to his squad."

She sighed. "He managed to track Sidonis down, against all odds, and asked me to help him take him down. I tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn't listen. So I pretended to go along with his wishes, and when the time came, I refused to let him do it. I blocked his shot, forced him to let Sidonis go."

Shepard's gaze became abstracted, and her voice dropped. "I knew about revenge, you see. About how quickly it eats your soul. About how, once you've gotten your revenge, somehow it doesn't do anything to ease the pain inside, or the guilt. Revenge is a hollow thing, and it's not justice. And hate endures long past the death of that which is hated." She found she was unconsciously clenching her fists, and forced her hands to relax. "I didn't want that for Garrus."

When Shepard looked up at Hawke, she could tell that Hawke saw her own misery reflected in Shepard's eyes. "Garrus was furious. What I saw in his eyes, just after, was something I'd never seen before, or since. Pure black rage. Everything about him was bleak and cold."

"_I know you want to talk about this, but I don't," Garrus growled, refusing to meet her eyes, mandibles stiff with fury. "Not now."_

That had been a very uncomfortable ride back to the Normandy. Shepard had been afraid, deathly afraid, that what she'd done hadn't been to save Garrus from himself, but to push him over some precipice into the kind of despair that a soul never recovers from.

"He wouldn't talk to me, or even look at me, for days," she admitted. "It was one of the worst times in my life, and I've been through plenty of rough patches. All I could do was wait, and hope."

"But he forgave you, right?" There was a note of pleading in Hawke's voice.

"Yes," Shepard said distantly. "_He_ forgave me."

"It was harder for me to forgive myself."

**-ooo-**

"_Do you have a minute?"_

_Shepard stood just inside the door to the battery, watching Garrus's armored back. It had been nearly four days, and she hoped like hell it had been long enough for the decidedly brilliant analytical mind under that spiky fringe to have reflected on her actions and motivations and come up with an answer that didn't mean he hated her guts._

"_Just a… _there_." There was a note of satisfaction in the flanging voice, and to Shepard's surprise, Garrus turned around to face her. "Yeah," he said. "I think it's time we… talked."_

_Her heart, which had risen like the Normandy breaking atmo, sank again as Garrus dropped his silver-blue eyes to the deck._

"_I… you were right, Shepard," he said quietly. "There's nothing I could do to Sidonis than is worse than what he's doing to himself." He glanced up, caught her eyes briefly in his blue stare, and then turned his head to look at the bulkhead. "But is it wrong that I still think I should have put a bullet in his head; not out of justice, but out of mercy?"_

_Shepard blinked. "Do you think it's wrong?" she asked._

_Garrus shook his head, and began to pace - a nervous habit of his, when he was thinking. "I don't know. A part of me feels as though I'm betraying my team. They deserved more from me. They deserved justice."_

"_When is a bullet justice, Garrus?" Shepard asked. _

_It was Garrus's turn to blink. "What about Saleon? What about Saren? Shepard, _you_ were the one who taught me that sometimes justice is better served with a gun than a lawyer."_

_Shepard sighed and rubbed her forehead with her hand. Wearily, she walked over to the crate she liked to perch on while visiting the turian in his favorite hidey-hole, and dropped onto it._

"_Then I was clearly not doing something right," she said. "Garrus, the reason I put a bullet in Saren - and Saleon - is simple, and it has _nothing_ to do with justice. They were dangerous people who needed to die. I didn't kill them because of all the people they killed or betrayed, or for the people who died because of their actions, I killed them to keep them from killing anyone else. Sidonis isn't a danger to anyone but himself at this point. And that's the same reason I didn't want you to kill Harkin. He might be a weasel, but he isn't a killer. People like that, the law can take care of. It doesn't need my intervention."_

"_Harkin ordered his mercs to kill us!" Garrus exclaimed. "He set two heavy mechs on us! Granted, none of them got past our shields, but you can't tell me it wasn't for lack of trying on his part."_

_Shepard shrugged. "A weasel will always bite when he's cornered."_

_Garrus snorted. "So what would you do, if you were betrayed?" he asked pointedly, his voice rising a little._

_Shepard looked deep into his eyes, green piercing blue, and said, very quietly, "I've already done it, Garrus. Why do you think I was trying so hard to keep you from making the same mistake?"_

**-ooo-**

Once again, Shepard forced herself to shake off the past. She gave Hawke a thoughtful look. "So, why don't you tell me what's going on with you and Varric while we walk? Who are we meeting at the landward gate, anyway?"

Hawke let out a breath, and rubbed behind her right ear. "Fenris and Anders," she answered, with a hint of sheepishness. "Which means we probably really ought to hurry."

Shepard's mouth quirked slightly as she chivvied Hawke out the door and began locking up. "I understand the unreasoning hatred of mages, given his background," she said, "but do you really think Fenris would actually cut Anders in half just because he's a mage?"

Hawke shook her head. "Not _just_ because he was a mage, no. Maybe because he was an abomination. But really, I'm more worried about them getting into a shouting match that turns into an all-out hair-pulling slapfest like a pair of drunken tavern wenches and embarrassing me."

Shepard ran this scenario through her mind - replaying a few scenes in slow motion for her amusement - and could see Hawke's point.

"And Varric?" she prompted, as they climbed out of the alienage. "What happened?"

Hawke sighed. "Well, you've heard both Varric and I mention Bartrand before, yes? Varric's brother, who left us to die in the Deep Roads because he didn't want to have to share the spoils?"

Shepard nodded. "Yes."

"Yesterday, Varric told me that he'd learned Bartrand was back in Kirkwall, staying in a mansion in Hightown."

Shepard frowned. "Not the smartest thing he could have done, if the brother knew the two of you had survived and might be carrying a grudge."

It was Hawke's turn to nod. "Bartrand… isn't at his best, at the moment."

"Oh?" Shepard's eyebrow lifted slightly.

Hawke waved a hand. "I'm getting ahead of myself," she apologized. "Varric told me, and wanted me to go with him to have a little _talk_ with his brother, to let him know how… _irritated_… we were by his actions."

"Uh-huh," Shepard smiled grimly. "Things got… out of hand?" she asked.

"You could say that," Hawke answered dryly. "Bartrand had gone completely mad. He'd done… unspeakable things… to his servants; forced his guards into cannibalism, and Maker knows what else. It was like a slaughterhouse in there."

A faint shudder rippled through the rogue. From that, Shepard could guess that it must have been pretty horrific indeed. Hawke was not one to shudder lightly. In fact, Shepard couldn't remember the rogue ever doing so for anything other than purely theatrical reasons.

After a moment, Hawke continued. "Varric was… he was enraged. What Bartrand had done to us was terrible, but it was something Varric could understand, if he obviously was less than pleased by it. But this was… just so _monstrous_. I think it might have… snapped… something inside him. When we finally found Bartrand - after first having to practically knock him senseless because he was trying to kill us - Varric drew his knife and had it up to Bartrand's throat. He kept demanding, _'Why, Bartrand, why?!'_, and something about his voice… it hurt to hear. If I hadn't stopped him, I think he would have gutted Bartrand then and there and watched him die slowly."

Startled a little by the similarities to her own memories, Shepard was even more startled to hear herself ask, "You stopped him?"

Hawke gave her an odd look. "Bartrand is his _brother_, Shepard. How could I let him do that to his own brother?"

Shepard gave a little shrug. "Bartrand was clearly willing to let both of you die."

"And Varric didn't need to turn into his brother," Hawke retorted. "Besides, you didn't see Bartrand. He was raving, absolutely raving, until Anders was able to heal his mind a little bit."

"Anders _healed his mind_?" Shepard asked incredulously. "He can _do_ that?"

"Not permanently," Hawke said sadly. "Just enough to make him lucid for a short time." She turned anguished eyes on Shepard. "He was begging, Shepard," she said, "_begging_ Varric to help him. I know that it wasn't Carver, or Bethany, and I know that it should have been Varric's decision, but… what else could I do, Shepard? _What else could I do_?"

Wordlessly, Shepard reached out a hand and put it on Hawke's shoulder, giving the rogue a reassuring squeeze. "Nothing else, and still call yourself his friend," she said gently.

They traveled in silence for a few minutes. Then Hawke took a deep, shaky breath. "So what do I do now?"

Shepard shook her head. "I'm really not the person to ask for advice," she said. "I've fucked up more than my fair share of friendships." Her mind flitted immediately to Kaidan and lingered there accusingly.

"I… haven't really had that many friendships to ruin, really," Hawke admitted. "So you're ahead of me on that score."

Shepard heaved a sigh. "Then I suggest you do what I did for Garrus," she said. "Give him a few days of space, and then go see him. Let him yell at you, if he needs to. And hope, like I did, that he understands why you did it, even if he hates you for it."

Her brow furrowed. "What happened to Bartrand, in the end?" she asked suddenly. "You didn't just leave him there, did you?"

Hawke looked aghast at the thought. "Maker, no! Varric had some of his people come collect Bartrand and take him to a sanitarium." Her face fell. "He was crying and still begging Varric to help him when they took him away."

Shepard felt a wrench in her gut.

_"But is it wrong that I still think I should have put a bullet in his head; not out of justice, but out of mercy?"_

They walked the rest of the way to the gate without speaking further.


	28. Chapter 27

_Note to ARavingLoony... you might want to skip the final section of this chapter. Just sayin'.  
_

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Seven**

Contrary to Hawke's gloomy prediction, Fenris and Anders were waiting at the gate with considerable restraint and decorum.

They were completely ignoring each other.

Hawke managed a smile for the pair of them, one that was only a little strained around the edges, and they passed out of Kirkwall, looping around the northwestern edge of the city.

"When I talked to the Dalish craftsman Ilen, he said that Sol's ironbark could definitely be found in this grove," Hawke told them as they traveled. "The only problem is, it appears there must be an entrance to the Deep Roads nearby, because the area is awash with darkspawn. The Dalish won't even send in hunting parties - they feel it simply isn't worth the risk."

"Must you always bring me along when there's darkspawn?" Anders complained. "You know how I feel about them."

"Find me another healer who also happens to be a former Gray Warden, and I'll take him instead," Hawke quipped lightly.

"Cheer up, Anders," Shepard told the healer, giving him a playful nudge in the shoulder. "At least she didn't suggest we try to find where they're coming from and put a stop to it."

Hawke brightened at this. "There's an idea…"

Anders scowled. "You just had to say it, didn't you?"

**-ooo-**

The ironbark grove was a thicket of twisted and gnarled trees clinging to the cliffs overlooking the Waking Sea. The soil here was more rock than sand, unlike the Wounded Coast further to the east, and colored a rusty red. What little other vegetation there was in the area consisted of low, coarse, dense shrub-like plants that reminded Shepard of the coyote brush that covered the steep slopes of the canyons north of LA.

As the squad picked their way down the narrow trail toward the grove, Anders stiffened. "Darkspawn ahead," he said. "A lot of them."

No sooner had he spoken than a ringing peal of metal on metal rose from beyond the craggy hillock they were skirting, followed by shouts and the harsh, growling cries of darkspawn.

"Somebody's already found them, by the sound of it," Hawke noted, breaking into a run.

They skid and slid their way down the path to level ground, and rounded the shoulder of the hillock. Shepard broke away from the squad, using her hands to help pull her way up the side of the outcropping to a place where her sniping skills could be put to best use. Hawke and the others ran on, to where a four-man patrol of qunari were desperately trying to break out of a ring of attacking darkspawn.

Shepard threw herself prone, grabbed for Garrus, and cursed impatiently as she waited for the scope to focus. Fenris plowed into the darkspawn's unprotected flank, chopping a genlock in two with his massive sword. Hawke buried her daggers in a hurlock's kidneys, pulled them free, and vaulted over a genlock to slice open a second hurlock's throat. Anders flung a wave of healing energy at the beleaguered qunari, but not before one of the giants collapsed first to his knees, and then to his face.

As soon as she could aim, Shepard was firing. Between them, the squad had managed to give the qunari some room, and one of them dropped back to draw an impressive longbow.

Ashaad?

There was no time for confirmation, not with the number of darkspawn still clustered around the squad and the qunari patrol. Shepard took down target after target, but there seemed to be no end to the creatures.

Out of nowhere, a heavy, black-fletched arrow buried itself in Fenris' shoulder as the elf swept his broadsword in deadly arcs. "Archers!" he cried out, the point of his heavy weapon hitting the ground momentarily as the impact of the arrow sent a wave of pain down his arm.

Instantly, Shepard was scanning the area through her scope. The powerful rifle roared as she located a hidden archer. Anders froze a second archer, and the report of the rifle was almost muffled by the sharp crack of the genlock shattering.

A second qunari was down, and blood was flowing freely down Fenris' black armor, adding lines of red to the glowing silver lyrium under his skin.

The scope danced over the qunari archer as he held his bowstring taut, creasing his lips with the woven silk cord before releasing it. A flash of red-orange confirmed Shepard's surmise, and a half-second later, the hurlock running up on the ashaad's flank lost the back of his skull and a good deal of brain matter as Shepard's rifle drilled a bullet between the darkspawn's eyes.

The ashaad's eyes flashed as he searched for the source of the covering fire, even as he reached to pull another arrow from his quiver, and seemed to meet Shepard's briefly through the scope. Before either could acknowledge the other, a huge roar split the thick afternoon air, and the ground shook with the thud of monstrous fists. Further along the path, an ogre pounded the earth before charging up the left side of the group, nearly flattening the ashaad. The qunari scout narrowly managed to dive clear of the charge, rolling and coming up with his bow at the ready.

Hawke lobbed a globe of acid at the monster's chest, then ducked and tumbled through the beast's legs to come up behind it with her daggers poised to strike at its back. The ogre roared again, spittle flying from it's fanged mouth, and was struck by a qunari arrow high in the chest at the same time Hawke buried her daggers to their hilts. Still, from past experience, Shepard knew that the creature was nearly as tough as stone, and for a moment she was torn between targets.

It seemed she wasn't alone. Fenris pivoted away from the hurlocks and genlocks he had been engaging with the clear intention of joining Hawke to take down the ogre. The ashaad was already drawing on the monster again, and the other qunari still on his feet had already turned to face the new threat.

Shepard shook her head. _Stupid!_

"Anders!" she shouted down to the melee. "Give Hawke some backup and try to keep everyone on their feet! Ashaad, maintain your fire on the ogre. Fenris, you and the other qunari keep those other troops off their backs, you hear me?!"

She punctuated these orders with a headshot to one of the darkspawn behind Fenris. The elf spun back, bringing his broadsword up and across in a diagonal strike that opened the chest cavity of a second.

From her vantage point, Shepard directed and covered the fighters. Slowly, the ashaad and Hawke whittled down the ogre, eventually bringing the creature to its knees, where Hawke was able to leap to its shoulders and drive her knives into the base of its thick skull. As it dropped, Shepard shifted her focus to Fenris, who was clearly flagging.

"Fenris, fall back!" she ordered.

"I said fall back!" she repeated, when the elf made no move to do so. "God dammit, Fenris," Shepard bellowed, as the elf was staggered as he tried to block a heavy ax wielded by a huge hurlock, "DO IT NOW! Hawke, cover him!"

Hawke rolled between the elf and the darkspawn, and came up leading with her dagger points, driving them into the underside of the hurlock's chin, a fierce grin stretching her lips. Reluctantly, Fenris retreated, waving Anders off as the healer came toward him.

After what seemed an eternity, but Shepard knew to be probably less than ten minutes, the final darkspawn fell and she was sliding down from her perch in the rocks.

"Anders," Shepard said crisply, as she made for the fallen qunari, "see what you can do for that arrow, will you? Get it stabilized, at the very least, so we can get Fenris back to the city."

"Fenris," she snapped, even before the elf could open his mouth, "shut up and let Anders do his job. That is an order. Hawke, come with me and let's see what we can do for the qunari."

It was too late for one of the giants, and none of the surviving three were unscathed. Of the three, one had a badly mangled shoulder, one had a nasty head wound, and the ashaad himself had taken a sword clean through his upper leg.

"Will you allow our healer to treat you?" Shepard asked the ashaad as she applied a healing poultice to the wound on his leg. "You were lucky - the blade seems to have missed your femur - but your friend there," she gestured to the qunari with the shoulder wound, "I don't know how much Asa will be able to fix. The joint's been compromised."

She glanced over at the qunari who'd taken a blow to the head. "Not to mention, _that_ guy was unconscious for several minutes, and his eyes are _still_ unfocused. That's a bad concussion, and I'm a little concerned about his brain swelling."

"The bas-saarebas is unchained," rumbled the ashaad. "It is too great a risk."

"Please, Ashaad," Shepard said softly. "I understand these are your men, so it's your decision, but I strongly suggest you take me up on this offer. We're still a good hour and a half's march back to Kirkwall."

"The command was not mine," replied the ashaad, looking to the corpse of the fallen qunari. "It was the sten's." His blood orange eyes regarded her impassively. "Your offer is noted, but it is not your concern, basra."

Shepard sighed. "Perhaps. But I don't like to see good men die or be crippled needlessly, Ashaad. _Please_ reconsider."

The ashaad glanced once at the other soldiers, and back at Shepard.

"If it helps, I'll take full responsibility," she said. "Anders may be saarebas, but he's saved my life, and my friends' lives. He's a good man, and I trust him."

"You command well, basra," said the ashaad, finally. "I will place my trust in you to control the bas-saarebas."

Shepard clapped one hand on his upper arm and gave it a hard squeeze, tendering him a sharp nod.

"Anders," she called. "When you're finished with Fenris, we could use a hand over here."

"Great, Shepard," Anders called back grumpily. "But if I could get a little help over _here_, maybe I could get this done so I can move over _there_."

Hawke and Shepard traded eye rolls, and Hawke straightened up from where she was tying a sling to take the weight off the kossith's injured shoulder and crossed back over to Fenris and Anders.

"How bad is Fenris?" Shepard asked when the healer came to her side a few minutes later.

"Lucky," was the mage's answer. "The arrow missed the joint. He insisted on removing the arrowhead himself." Anders paused, and gave a shrug. "Just as well, really," he added. "I couldn't have removed it without opening the shoulder. He just reached right in and plucked it out."

Shepard suppressed a shudder. "I have to admit, that little talent still creeps me out," she said wryly.

She shook her head and squared her shoulders with a sharp exhale. "We've got a significant but fairly clean leg wound, a pretty bad concussion, and this," she led him over to the stoic kossith whose blood was already seeping out of the makeshift bandage on his shoulder.

Anders gently lifted the edge of the bandage and looked at the mess beneath. He grimaced.

"The blade went through the joint," she said quietly, bringing up her scan of the injury. "Everything in there's been broken - the head of the humerus, the clavicle, the top of the scapula... the joint capsule's been compromised, the muscles have been shredded… it's not good."

"Looks like he was on the opposite end of the luck curve from the elf," the healer replied dryly.

"Can you do anything for him?"

Anders gave her a look. "Of course I can," he said in a mildly offended tone. He reached into the pouch at his belt for a lyrium potion, which he pressed into her hand. "But I'll probably need a bit of help."

Shepard nodded. "I'll be ready." She gave him a grin. "Have I mentioned that you're my favorite apostate, Blondie?"

Anders narrowed his eyes and poked her behind the ear with one finger. It gave off a mild electric charge, just enough to make Shepard jump and for her hair to try to stand on end.

"Hey!" she said indignantly.

"Don't make me do that again," he warned. "You're picking up bad habits from Hawke. Now, did you treat all these wounds with the Warden's potion first?"

"Yeah," Shepard said. "Hawke made sure of it."

"Good." The mage's eyes became abstracted, as if sharply focused on some point behind his own retinas, and his hands pulsed with healing energy.

The qunari started slightly and made as if to draw away, but Shepard laid a hand on his uninjured shoulder and squeezed. "Pashaara," she said quietly, a word she'd deduced to mean _stop_. "Relax. The saarebas is under my control."

The ashaad added another few words, and the soldier subsided, although Shepard could feel his muscles bunch restlessly under her fingers.

Anders face contorted with effort, and beads of sweat popped out on his brow - signs Shepard had come to associate with a difficult healing. She uncorked the vial of lyrium for him and held it ready, knowing that he was likely to need it soon. He paused briefly to gulp it down, and returned to his work on the shoulder.

When he sagged and would have fallen to his knees, Shepard caught him, slipping his arm over her shoulders and guiding him to a fallen log. She eased him down, and Anders let out a long, shuddering breath.

"You okay?" she asked, taking him by both shoulders and holding him steady.

"I'm fine," he muttered. "Just give me a second to catch my breath."

Shepard turned to the pair of qunari staring warily at the exhausted mage. The third soldier was still too unfocused for a full stare, but was giving it his best shot.

"It's okay," she assured them. "Nothing's wrong. It was just… tiring… for him."

The soldier gingerly rolled his shoulder.

"No, don't try to use it," Anders called out to him. "I put things back together, but you're not completely _healed_. Shepard?"

Shepard glanced back at the healer as he said her name. "See if you can find something to bind his arm to his side. I don't want him moving it around. And tell him to leave the sling on," he added, as the kossith reached for the knotted strap around his neck.

"Did you get that?" Shepard asked the ashaad. "The major damage has been fixed, but the shoulder's still going to need some additional healing. Can you explain to him while I bind up his arm?"

The ashaad gave an almost contemptuous snort. "The karasaad understands your tongue, basra. He simply does not speak it."

Shepard refused to take offense at his tone. "Even better," she replied crisply, catching a roll of bandage that Anders tossed her way and using it to wrap the karasaad's upper arm against his side. "When Anders finishes catching his breath, I'll have him look at the other karasaad…"

"Ashaad," corrected the concussed qunari shortly.

"The other ashaad," Shepard acknowledged. "And stop the bleeding in your leg."

"No," said the ashaad. "It is fine."

Shepard folded her arms on her chest. "You were run through. It's not _fine_."

"It is fine," the ashaad repeated stubbornly.

Shepard sighed. "All right. But I doubt the other ashaad will be able to walk without treatment. He can't even see straight." She glanced at the sten's corpse. "Is there anything we need to do for…"

"No." The ashaad regarded Shepard with an unreadable expression.

"Do we need to bring his body back to the compound?"

"No. It is merely a shell, no longer with any purpose."

Shepard's eyebrows quirked, but she gave a small exhale of relief. "Well, I have to say that makes things a little easier."

"You do not need to concern yourself with us further, basra," the ashaad declared stiffly, but Shepard waved him into silence.

"Ah-ah. Not just yet," she said. "I said I want Anders to take a look at the other ashaad. If your pride insists you return to Kirkwall without any assistance from me, fine. But this first."

She turned her gaze on the concussed kossith. "I have to say this is going to hurt like a sonuvabitch," she told him, as Anders got to his feet with a grunt of effort. "But it'll be over fast."

As he'd done once before with her, Anders set his hands on either side of the concussed ashaad's temples. The normally impassive face twitched slightly as the healer's hands flared with energy, but the glassy eyes - a very pretty shade of amber that reminded Shepard of Isabela's - sharpened. When Anders' hands dropped away, Shepard was pleased to see the qunari was focusing well again.

"There you go," said the mage cheerfully, albeit with more than a hint of weariness. "Don't let him fall asleep for, oh, eight hours or so," he offered to the ashaad with blood orange eyes.

"Are you sure you don't want to travel back to Kirkwall with us?" Shepard asked one final time, knowing what the answer would be. "Two of you have lost an awful lot of blood."

"No." The ashaad's voice was firm.

"All right," Shepard sighed. "Let Asa know that he can call on me if he needs me for anything."

A grunt was her only answer. The ashaad motioned to the two survivors, who got to their feet and started slowly back along the trail. The ashaad started to follow them, only to pause and turn back toward Shepard.

"You did not have to assist us, basra," he said solemnly. "That you did… You show unusual _honor_, for a bas."

And with that, he limped off after the others.

**-ooo-**

While Shepard and Anders were seeing to the wounded qunari, Hawke and Fenris had located a sizeable chunk of ironbark wood for Solivitus. The elf was moving his right arm stiffly, but apart from that seemed no worse for wear.

"Don't strain that shoulder," cautioned Anders. "I don't want you to undo the healing I did."

"I didn't _ask_ you to heal me, mage," growled Fenris.

"No," interrupted Shepard, "_I_ did. And _I_ don't want you to undo the healing he did, either."

She gave Hawke a frustrated look. "How do you put up with them sometimes?"

Hawke smiled brightly. "I think about puppies and kittens a lot."

"Does that work?"

"No."

**-ooo-**

The prothean beacon stood, dark and silent, in the corner of the crumbling main hall of Fernis's borrowed mansion. Although she was tempted to try activating it again, Shepard had mostly convinced herself to give it a few weeks before subjecting herself to another mental rummaging.

_Mostly_.

She climbed the stairs, shifting the string bag on her shoulder to keep it from knocking against the stair rail. Shepard had picked up a kettle, teapot and some tea, some cheese, some cold smoked ham, a few apples, and a half dozen soft herbed rolls from the Hightown bakery - she intended to see that Fenris got a few solid meals in while his shoulder was still healing.

Shepard shook her head. Having been on the receiving end of Anders' healing magic, she knew that given the placement of the arrow, the mage should have been able to heal the elf completely. That he had not meant that Fenris had forced Anders to stop before he was truly finished. Well, that bullshit was going to stop _right now_.

Fenris was sitting in one of the padded armchairs by the fireplace, slowly running a sharpening stone over his broadsword, smoothing out the nicks in the blade. His eyes flickered up to Shepard briefly, and returned to his task.

"Fenris," Shepard greeted him pleasantly, clearing the small table near the fireplace with a sweep of her forearm and setting the bag on its surface.

The elf's eyes flicked to her again. "Shepard," he acknowledged in his smooth deep tones.

"I know you don't get down to the markets much," Shepard continued, picking at the drawstring at the mouth of the bag, "so I picked up a few things for you."

Something unreadable passed over the elf's face. "That wasn't necess…"

Shepard made a chopping motion with one hand and speared him with a look. "Do me a favor and shut up. I get enough of that shit from the qunari." She began emptying the bag briskly. "You're a soldier. I'm a soldier. Good soldiers look after one another. End of story."

A frown wrinkled the elf's brow and turned the corners of his lips down. "That's a good story, but it's not entirely true, is it?"

Shepard paused and gave him a hard look. "Isn't it?" she asked. "The exact nature of our relationship might be a bit more complex, but that's what it all boils down to. You watch my back, I watch yours. This is just another way of watching your back, Fenris."

Fenris snorted inelegantly. "Do you always get what you want, Shepard?"

Shepard's lips twisted wryly. "No. But I do my damnedest to make sure my orders are followed."

Another unreadable expression settled into place. "I no longer take orders from any man - or woman."

"Tough shit," Shepard snapped. "Because I'll see to it that you follow mine."

The silvery blue lines of lyrium under Fenris's skin gave a subtle flare, and she could see his hand tighten on the broadsword's hilt.

"Stand down, Fenris," she said quietly, but with the full force of her commanding personality. "You aren't a slave any more, and I would die before I let _anyone_ try to enslave you again. But by god, you will listen to me, elf. _I will see to it_."

For a long moment the two of them simply stared at each other, locked in a silent battle of will. Then Fenris turned his head.

"What makes you think you have the right to command me?" The elf's rich voice was low and dangerous.

"I don't," Shepard answered simply. "But someone has to. Hawke is a skilled fighter, and she'd take a bullet - or a blade or arrow, or whatever - for any one of you. And she's not a bad tactical thinker at speed. But she doesn't _command_ - except in very rare circumstances - and she's too sensitive of each of you _individually_ to force an issue unless it's a life or death situation. Unfortunately, what's good for each of you individually is not necessarily what's good for the squad as a whole."

"Hawke," she said, after a pause, "is a _suggester. _I am not."

Fenris put his head on one side, lips twisting bitterly. "And how is _this_," he gestured at the low table in front of him, "good for the squad as a whole?"

Shepard snorted at him. "You're the most powerful fighter among us," she said. "Hawke - and those who work with her - rely on you to be able to swing that sharpened bridge support you call a sword. And you can't do that when you're injured."

"I am not injured. The mage healed me," Fenris growled. "On your _order_."

"Cut the crap, Fenris," Shepard growled back. "We both know you stopped Anders before he could finish the job. Which, by the way, you won't be doing again."

"Oh?" It was a challenge, and Shepard took it up easily.

"You bet your sweet ass," she said. "Answer me honestly… has Anders _ever_ done anything to harm you or any of Hawke's other companions?"

Sulkiness warred with other expressions for control of the elf's face. "No," he said finally. "But," he held up a hand to indicate that he wasn't finished, "he admits that he is possessed by a demon. Should his control over the creature ever slip, there is no telling what it might do, whether _Anders_ wills it or not. I do not think you fully understand the danger."

Shepard shrugged. "Maybe not. But I do know that I've watched him heal all sorts of people at that clinic of his. Whatever else he may be, the man is a healer at heart. That's a rare talent to have." She gave a short bark of laughter. "He's also saved my life on at least two occasions, and I suppose that's earned him a slight bias in his favor."

"But regardless," Shepard sobered and fixed Fenris with a firm stare, "you won't be ducking the healer's services in the future. I won't make you see him for a pulled muscle - god knows I've avoided Chakwas for my share of injuries - but for anything major, you _will_ find yourself in Anders' tender loving care. I guarantee it."

"And do you guarantee my safety, as you hollowly guaranteed the qunari's?" Fenris grated.

Shepard's response was cool. "If necessary."

It was Fenris who gave a bark of laughter this time. "And you would run your precious mage through should it be necessary?"

"I try not to kill people under my command," Shepard responded dryly. "But should he pose a threat to others' lives and there be no other alternative, then yes." She met his gaze levelly. "I would."

Once again Fenris looked away. "I… you surprise me," he said after a long silence. "I had judged your loyalty to the mage to override such an act."

"Then you don't really understand me," Shepard said softly, rising to her feet. "Or command."

She gestured briefly at the contents of the bag laid neatly on the table, while picking up the empty bag itself. "Eat. Rest. Let that shoulder finish healing. And that's an order."

"Shepard…"

Shepard ignored him, and turned for the doorway.

"Shepard!"

She stopped and looked back over her shoulder.

Fenris wore yet another unreadable expression, but there was a… softness in his eyes. He gestured to the table. "I… suppose I should thank you," he managed.

"You're welcome." Shepard gave him a nod, and left without another word.

**-ooo-**

In her library, Hawke paced before the fireplace.

Shepard had said to give Varric time. But how long should she wait? Was two days long enough? Should she wait another day? Another two?

_Maker_, she was bad at this.

Hawke had been nothing short of honest when she'd told Shepard that she hadn't had many friends. Growing up with an apostate father and a younger sister who began to show signs of magic before her fifth winter ensured that Hawke's childhood was a solitary one. Even after the family settled in Lothering, where Malcolm Hawke was known as a good man, if somewhat reserved; where Bethany and Leandra had allowed themselves friendships with the other farmers' wives and daughters, Hawke herself formed nothing more than casual acquaintances - including with those few she allowed to bed her. It was safer that way; for her family, for herself.

It was only after she'd failed so spectacularly in protecting her family - Carver dead, Bethany gone to the Circle - that she'd started to look upon her band of misfits as _friends_. Truth be told, Hawke suspected she'd merely turned them into a kind of surrogate family for her to look after - a group of people to care for and protect, as had been ingrained in her from her earliest days.

"_You will need to look after your mother if I am ever taken by the templars," Malcolm had told his young daughter one day, as he taught her how to hold a dagger. _

_And later, "You will need to look after your mother and sister when I am gone. And Carver will help you, won't you, my boy?" as he pressed Carver's first sword - no more than a wooden toy, really - into the boy's hands. _

Well, there was only her mother to look after now, and an estate and servants to help with that, leaving Hawke free to worry about those she'd drawn into her company over the past several years. And given that she counted two apostates, an escaped slave, a fugitive pirate, and an exiled prince among their number, there was plenty of worry to go around.

Hawke's worry for Aveline had perhaps instead manifested as a desire to protect Kirkwall itself. The less trouble in Kirkwall, the less trouble for Aveline. It certainly wasn't a love of the city that made her act in its best interests, nor a fondness for its Viscount and Seneschal. Perhaps a small part was Hawke's fondness for the underdog - Kirkwall was certainly a city of underdogs - but in the large it was done for Aveline. The Guard-Captain cared for the city, and so Hawke, being Hawke, looked after it the way she had her reckless little brother - with grudging exasperation.

And then there was Varric.

There was always Varric.

Her drinking buddy. Her partner in - if not crime, then perhaps _questionable activities_. The one who knew her almost better than she knew herself. Her trusty dwarf.

How in the Maker's name was she supposed to survive in Kirkwall without him?

How the the Maker's name was she supposed to survive _anywhere_ without him?

**-ooo-**

The tapping at the door wasn't loud, but it was insistent. Insistent enough to shake Shepard from sleep and send her stumbling across the apartment floor.

"Hold on, dammit," she called, threading her way past stacks of piping that the dwarven plumbers had left in every room of the small space. She'd stubbed her toes more than once since the little bastards started work two days before.

_You shouldn't call them little bastards, Shepard. They're the saviors of your sanitation woes, remember?_

Shepard fumbled with the bolts on the door, yawning widely. Her head still had that turned inside-out feeling she associated with direct mind contact. Despite multiple experiences with prothean devices, and having shared direct mind-to-mind contact with Liara on more than a few occasions, Shepard knew she'd never get used to the feeling, and sure as hell didn't want to.

She was only mildly surprised to see that her visitor was Asa. She'd expected it to be the plumbers, but over the past several days, requests from the Arishok had been frequent as well. Shepard chalked it up to having saved the ashaad's patrol - the increase had come about directly following their encounter with the besieged qunari.

"Isn't it a little early in the morning for a social call, Asa?" Shepard said blearily, motioning for the qunari to enter the apartment.

"The Arishok would disagree," Asa said with a shrug.

"Of course he would," Shepard agreed wryly. "Sometimes I think he'd disagree if I said the sky was blue."

"He would right now," Asa told her. "It's a startling shade of pink at the moment."

Shepard padded back to her bedroom. "Give me a few minutes, will you?" she asked. "As impatient as the Arishok is, I imagine he'd be less than pleased by me showing up in my pee-jays."

Asa made a noncommittal sound as Shepard began shucking off the loose shirt and cut-off leggings she wore to bed. After a moment, he spoke, his voice hesitant. "There is a matter I hoped to discuss with you," he said. "As a soldier."

_As a soldier? That's an odd way of putting it._

"Shoot," Shepard replied, pulling her skinsuit on over a fresh pair of panties. "Or should I be asking who you want shot?"

By his puzzled silence, Shepard realized she'd lost the physician. She poked her head out of the bedroom briefly. "Go ahead, I mean."

Asa took a deep breath. "I would ask for your understanding, one soldier for another," he said slowly.

"Asa," Shepard said, a trifle sharply, "just spit it out already."

"I would appreciate it if you could try not to… antagonize… the Arishok for the next few weeks."

Shepard stalked out of the bedroom, armored hardsuit half-assembled. "What?! _Me_ antagonize _him_? What about the other way around?!"

Asa took a second deep breath, and rubbed at the back of his neck - an oddly uncomfortable gesture from the usually self-possessed healer.

"I suspect that will not improve. If anything, he will probably provoke you intentionally," the qunari sighed.

Shepard's eyes narrowed. "Permission to speak freely, Asa. Now, what the hell is going on?"

One of the healer's eyebrows rose. "I did not realize I required your permission."

"Don't play games, qunari," Shepard growled. "I _may be_ a soldier, but I've never been a morning person. It's too early for this bullshit."

Asa regarded her half-dressed form thoughtfully for a moment. "I believe the Arishok may be suffering from a condition that affects the kossith time to time," he said delicately. "I was hoping to appeal to your sense of honor as a soldier and ask you to do what you can to minimize your interactions with him, and try not to… upset him."

Shepard snorted. "My sense of honor as a soldier has nothing to do with it, Asa," she said shortly. "_Who I am_ as a _person_ has everything to do with it." She sighed as well. "He may frustrate the hell out of me, and I might possibly have, on occasion, wanted to knock that smug, superior look off his face, but I don't actually want anything _bad_ to happen to him."

She gave Asa a searching look. "So what's wrong with him? Is there anything I can do to help, besides trying not to piss him off?"

Asa shrugged. "Speak quietly, and refrain from making eye contact as much as possible. Keep your physical distance, if you can. Don't argue with him."

Shepard tilted her head. "You make it sound like he's going to have some kind of apoplexy or something."

"No," Asa shook his head. "Not exactly. But I fear that dealing with you will… exacerbate the condition."

"You still haven't said what this condition is."

"It is not something that affects humans," Asa said off-handedly. "As I said, it is unique to the kossith."

Shepard subjected him to a hard stare before returning to the bedroom to finish donning her armor. "Well, how do you normally treat it?" she called out.

"_I_ do not," he replied. "It is a condition that the tamassrans deal with."

"The what?"

"Tamassrans," repeated the physician. "They are… _priests_, I suppose you would say."

Shepard stuck her head back into the main room. "Wait. Are you trying to tell me that the Arishok has some kind of psychological problem?" she demanded. "Something wrong with his mind?"

Asa looked shocked. "Oh, no. The condition is a physical one."

"So why do the priests treat it instead of the doctors? What are the symptoms?"

Asa looked toward the bedroom, but Shepard had withdrawn her head again. "It can cause increased aggression," he said evasively. "His temper will be very short."

"Lovely," said Shepard, wryly. "I can see why you want me to play meek and mild. Is it dangerous?"

The healer was silent. As Shepard emerged from the bedroom again, fastening her omni-tool on her arm, she repeated herself. "I asked if it's dangerous, Asa."

The qunari looked even more uncomfortable, and his voice was hesitant when he answered. "It could be, yes."

"To him, or just to the poor unfortunate asshole who pisses him off?"

"Both." Asa inhaled sharply. "It is… complicated, basra. Just, please, do as I ask."

Shepard met his eyes for a moment, and then shrugged. "I'll do my best."

**-ooo-**

Nervously, Hawke wiped her palms on her skirt.

Damned dwarf. She'd faced Viscounts and qunari, darkspawn and dragons, and she'd never been so nervous in her life.

Or frightened.

What if he wouldn't speak to her? What if he spoke to her, and told her to go away - permanently?

Hawke swallowed the bile that rose in her throat at the thought. Maker. If this was what having friends was like, maybe she'd been better off without them.

Why did it matter, anyway? He was just a dwarf she knew. She knew _plenty_ of dwarfs. She _lived_ with dwarfs. Granted, none of them had Varric's easy charm, his wit, his intelligence, his devious cunning. Or his devilish skill with a crossbow, don't forget that. But really, what did it matter if he told her off now? She had wealth, the old Amell estate, and she gave the Seneschal heartburn on a nearly daily basis. What more did a girl need?

She needed her trusty dwarf, that's what she needed!

Someone took that moment to barge through the door of the Hanged Man and right into Hawke where she stood dithering in the entry.

"Serah Hawke?" said a familiar voice in some confusion. "I… pardon me, I'm afraid I wasn't looking where I was..."

Hawke glanced around into the hazel eyes of Knight-Captain Cullen. "Oh, no need to apologize," she assured him lightly. "It was my fault for lingering in front of the door."

Curiosity got the better of her. "What brings you to the Hanged Man, Knight-Captain? Certainly not the ale."

The templar shifted uncomfortably. "I am… looking for someone," he admitted.

Hawke's eyes narrowed slightly. "I wouldn't have thought the Hanged Man would be high on the list of places a mage on the run would choose to hide," she said.

"I… it is not a mage I seek," Cullen replied, growing even more uncomfortable.

There was a mild commotion near the bar. A man's voice, slurred by drink, followed by the clatter of heavy plate hitting the floor. By way of a table, if Hawke was any judge.

The Knight-Captain winced, and, murmuring apologies, edged past Hawke into the common room. Temporarily distracted from her dread and uncertainty, Hawke followed.

It was hardly a rare occurrence for a patron of the Hanged Man to part company with consciousness. What was a bit out of the ordinary was the fact that this one wore the scarlet livery and flaming sword insignia of the templars.

…Which explained why Cullen's discomfort seemed far greater than could be explained by a simple illicit visit to a low-class drinking establishment. Meredith would not be amused.

Hawke's mouth quirked in a grin. Her amusement shared a definite inverse relationship to that of the Knight-Commander.

The smile was fleeting. Hawke cast a quailing glance at the far end of the common room and the steps that led to the tavern's rooms. It was now or… sometime later. Yes, sometime later would probably be better.

But before she could beat a hasty retreat, a voice called out to her from the bar.

"Hawke!"

Maker. She'd forgotten about Isabela…

Forcing a smile back on her lips, Hawke turned to face the pirate. "Isabela!"

The pirate sashayed her way to Hawke's side. "Well, well," Isabela's sharp amber eyes regarded Hawke with amusement and a hint of suggestiveness. "You and the Knight-Captain? Did you finally decide to try out a scene from _Hawke Gets Harrowed_?"

"What?!" exclaimed Hawke. "No!" She scowled at the pirate. "And you know that..."

Isabela sighed theatrically. "…Only mages get harrowed." She tilted her head. "You do _read_ my friend fiction, don't you?"

"Isabela!" Hawke snapped. "I know what you're insinuating, and the answer is no. Cullen and I are not doing any _harrowing_!"

A flush began to creep over Hawke's face as the rogue realized her voice had risen. She dropped it again and hissed, "Cullen and I just happened to walk in to the common room at the same time. That's all."

Isabela's eyes sparkled. "Then why does the poor boy look so embarrassed?"

Hawke huffed. "Probably because he just overheard my comment. Or maybe because he's having to scrape a templar off of the floor of the Hanged Man. I don't know."

The pirate leaned casually against one of the building's massive support beams. "So if you're not here to do things to Cullen that he's only dreamed about, why are you here? You're not wearing leathers."

Hawke attempted a look of easy nonchalance. "I thought I'd drop by and see Varric," she said.

"Not me?" Isabela pouted. "Fine," the pirate shrugged. "I'll remember this the next time you need something from me."

"You know, that would work better if you hadn't brought up _Hawke Gets Harrowed_."

"I write it out of love," the pirate declared. "Always out of love."

Hawke snorted. "Love of embarrassing your friends, perhaps."

Isabela examined her fingernails on one hand, and then let her eyes drift up to the darkened recesses of the rafters. "Maybe just a _little_…" she admitted. "Varric told me you didn't like my last story, either."

"_Hawke and the Seneschal's Favor_?" Hawke folded her arms on her chest. "No. Not at all."

"Not even a _little_?" Isabela wheedled. "Not even one _tiny little bit_?"

"_Isabela!_ Bran, of all people!"

"He's not bad-looking. And his eyes always smolder so delightfully when you're around."

"It's his heartburn."

Isabela gave her a searching look. "Really? You've really never thought about Bran and that big, shiny desk of his? _I_ have."

"Isabela, I wouldn't be surprised if you told me you'd contemplated the Grand Cleric herself…"

"Not the Grand Cleric, no." Isabela's eyes were wicked. "But I will admit to having some delicious thoughts about your prince and the confessional booths…"

"What? Not the altar itself?"

Isabela shook her head. "Too much wax," she declared. "A little wax is nice, sometimes, but that… no."

It was Hawke's turn to shake her head. "I can't believe you sometimes," she said, but with a certain affection.

"I am pretty amazing," Isabela admitted. She straightened herself off the support beam. "Tell Varric not to forget he owes me two sovereigns," she added, catching Corff's eye and signaling him to pour her another drink.

Hawke groaned inwardly. Right. Varric.

Grimly, she squared her shoulders and marched across the common room floor. Steadfastly, she mounted the stairs, one after the other. Courageously, she raised her hand to knock at the door to Varric's suite.

Her fist chickened out before it could make contact.

**-ooo-**

Shepard sipped at the elven spiced drink that had come to replace her morning coffee. "Wouldn't it be better all around if I just avoided him altogether?" she asked.

Asa nodded vigorously. "Yes, very much so."

Shepard sipped again. "So why don't I just do that?" She gestured at the nearby food stall. "You want some breakfast?"

The qunari healer shook his head. "No, thank you. I have already broken my fast."

Shepard shrugged, and stepped over to purchase one of her favorite items; a fried slice of flatbread that was baked with all kinds of things - herbs, cheese, the odd bit of bacon or sausage. It was a common breakfast food in the alienage, and apparently made up entirely of whatever leftovers they could get their hands on. Her dad would have loved it.

It certainly beat the hell out of MREs.

Then again, there were things growing under damp logs that tasted better than MREs.

Asa waited for her. When she returned with her bit of crispy flatbread, he answered her original question. "You can try," he said. "In fact, it would be best if you did. But you will not be able to ignore his requests for your presence."

"Why not?" Shepard countered. "As his physician, you can tell him that you insisted that I keep my distance so as not to aggravate his condition."

Asa shook his head. "As I said, it is complicated."

Shepard gave him a shrewd look, chewing thoughtfully at the bread. "Tell me, Asa… is the Arishok even aware of his condition?"

The healer's face smoothed out, became impassive. "Not yet," he said evenly.

Shepard lifted an eyebrow. "Not yet?"

"The condition is in the early stages, still."

"But he will realize what's happening, right? Eventually, I mean?"

Asa's face lost even more expression. "Yes."

Shepard sighed. "Okay, I get it," she said, and squinted at the healer. "It's complicated."

"_Extremely_."

"Great."

**-ooo-**

As Hawke stood with her hand upraised, seized by unrelenting cowardice, the door to Varric's suite opened. She jumped in surprise.

So did Edwina, who was on the other side.

"I'm sorry, serah," apologized Corff's best serving girl - though the term _girl_ was slightly a misnomer, given that Edwina had passed her girlhood well before Hawke herself.

"It's… it's fine," stammered Hawke, although inwardly she was cursing the day Edwina was born. "I was just coming to visit Varric. Is he in?"

"Hawke?" came the dwarf's voice from inside the rooms.

Edwina gave Hawke a smile and a shrug, as if to say, _does that answer your question?_

Hawke returned the serving woman's smile with a sickly one of her own, and prayed to the Maker she wouldn't throw up in the next two minutes.

She stepped into the room. Varric was seated at his table, various scraps of paper and complicated-looking documents spread out before him. He glanced up as she entered.

"Hawke. I thought that sounded like you," he said.

Hawke blinked. Varric sounded offhand, casual… _normal_.

"Varric," she managed to croak.

Varric looked away from the documents. "Maker, Hawke, you sound terrible. You should get Blondie to mix you up something for that throat."

The rogue attempted to clear her throat and try again.

"How are you?" she asked, tentatively.

Varric heaved a sigh. "I've been better," he said wryly. "Now that Bartrand has been officially removed as head of House Tethras, my paperwork seems to have gone up tenfold."

He didn't sound angry. He didn't sound upset. He sounded… like Varric, dealing with the Merchant's Guild.

She should be relieved. She should be ecstatic. Instead, Hawke found herself feeling a little… angry.

"You want a drink? You just missed Edwina, obviously, but she'll be back in a few minutes."

It was as if nothing had happened between them. In confusion, Hawke asked, "What about Bartrand?"

Varric looked surprised. "What about him?"

"You were going to kill him, Varric," Hawke said bluntly.

"I really wanted to for a while there," Varric agreed.

"You're not upset that I stopped you?"

Varric shook his head. "Of course not," he said. "You saw him, Hawke. What he did… it really wasn't him doing it."

Hawke just stared at the dwarf.

"Can we talk about more pleasant things?" Varric asked plaintively. "Like, I don't know… kittens that eat people's eyeballs?"

"You're not still mad at me?" Hawke pressed.

"Mad at you?" Varric looked confused. "What are you talking about, Hawke?"

Hawke's face twitched slightly.

"Hawke? You okay?"

She sat down with a thump. "Where in the void is Edwina?" she demanded. "I need a drink."

Varric smiled. "That's my girl."

**-ooo-**

Shepard, Varric, and three very serious dwarves were crowded into a very cramped bathing chamber. The air was thick with expectation. It was a monumentous occasion.

Gingerly, Shepard reached forward and tugged the chain.

There was a thunk, followed by the swish and gurgle of water, and then… nothing. Not so much as a drip.

"Congratulations, gentlemen," said Shepard gravely. "You've struck a blow for sanitation in this town."

Varric shook his head. "I still don't know how you managed to talk me into this, Starkiller."

Shepard waved a hand at the polished wooden box with it's complex piping and elegant porcelain bowl. "Go on. Give it a whiz," she grinned.

"No thank you," Varric replied, with dignity. "I just hope that you and Hawke haven't bankrupted me, that's all."

"Hawke?" Shepard asked, raising an eyebrow.

Varric looked morose. "She got me drunk and interrogated me," he complained. "Now she wants one."

"We started yesterday," said one of the serious dwarfs - Nils, Shepard thought. Or maybe Adan. She couldn't keep the two of them straight.

"And the tanners will come by and empty the tank?"

"Ayuh," said Gavin, the eldest and most laconic of the three dwarves.

Shepard rubbed her hands together happily. Then her eyes narrowed. "Wait… you started yesterday? What about my bathtub?"

All three shrugged. "Waiting for materials," said Adan, or then again, possibly Nils.

"Got to keep the lads busy," said Nils, or possibly Adan.

"She'll be right," said Gavin.

Before Shepard could respond to the dwarven plumber, a knock sounded at the door. She settled for a glare all around. "You have a week, gentlemen," she declared, with an air of finality. "Or I hunt you down and tie your beards together."

"I'm serious," she called back over her shoulder as the dwarfs muttered behind her. "Keep putting me off, and I'll take a _razor_ to your precious chin hairs."

Still glowering, Shepard yanked open the door with poor grace. "What?" she asked.

"Is this a bad time?" asked Asa, one hand raised to knock again.

Shepard put her hands on her hips. "Would it matter if I said yes?"

Asa sighed. "No. But I _will _apologize for disturbing you."

She gestured over her shoulder. "I'm in the middle of an argument with the plumbers right now."

Asa looked perplexed. "What…?"

"They're worse than mechanics," she grumbled. "They sense weakness."

Shepard shot a glare back toward the bathing chamber. "They told me they'd be done in a couple of days. Then it was a week. Then two weeks." She snapped her jaw shut and fumed silently for a moment. "Now they've taken on another job. I'm never going to have a real bathroom!"

"Perhaps you will appreciate a break from your… domestic… issues?" the healer suggested tentatively.

"Can't you tell him I'm busy? Or that I'm sick? Dead? Moved to another continent?" Shepard complained. "This is the fourth day in a row, Asa!"

"I _am_ sorry for disturbing you," the healer offered.

"He grilled me on the qun for _two hours_ the day before yesterday! The day before that, he had me spar with three of the karasten. _Three!_ And then he just stalked off without even bothering to be condescending at me. And yesterday, he just about took my head off for asking about the ashaad."

Shepard fixed the qunari healer with a penetrating deep green stare. "It's getting worse, isn't it?"

Asa dropped his eyes. "It appears so," he admitted.

Shepard shook her head. "You have to talk to him," she urged. "Tell him he needs to rest in bed for a few days, or something."

"I can't do that," Asa said with a shake of his head. "And I told you that you needed to stay away from the ashaad."

"I haven't seen the ashaad since his squad got mobbed by darkspawn!" Shepard protested. "I just asked if he and the other two soldiers that survived were all right now. He's a friend… sort of."

The healer exhaled sharply. "Shepard," he said, "just once I'd appreciate it if you could do what you're instructed to do."

"What?" Shepard appeared incensed. "Do you have _any idea_ how hard I've tried to follow your suggestions? I've practically chewed off and swallowed my own tongue a dozen times over! I break off eye contact almost before he makes it! The simple fact is that it isn't working, Asa. He's itching for a fight, and sooner or later he's not even going to look for an excuse."

Shepard ran a hand over her face. "I can't do it, Asa. You're going to have to go back empty handed. Tell him I'm out with Hawke."

"You agreed to these conditions," Asa reminded her.

"This does not meet the definition of _within reason_," Shepard said flatly. "And you can tell him I said so. Or, you can make up some excuse that he might find an acceptable alternative." She gave the healer an evil grin. "Your choice."

**-ooo-**

"You can't talk to dwarfs like that," Varric admonished Shepard later that evening. "They take their beards very seriously, you know."

Isabela was lazily shuffling cards. "What did you say?" she asked curiously.

"First I threatened to tie them together," Shepard replied. "Then I threatened to cut them off entirely."

The pirate's eyes widened. "You might as well have threatened to cut their balls off."

Shepard shrugged. "They told me _she'll be right_. I wouldn't have lost my temper, but Gavin had to open his usually tight-lipped mouth and say _she'll be right_. Again."

She leaned forward on the table, staring into Isabela's amber eyes. "Do you have any idea how many times I've heard the expression _she'll be right_ in the past two weeks? There's a hole in my wall where I'm trying to use the bucket? _She'll be right_. There's a hole in the floor that I fall into? _She'll be right_. I have ten dwarfs making themselves at home in my bedroom? _She'll be right_. Everyone suddenly disappears, leaving me with piles of piping and three gaping holes in my bathroom for nearly four days? _She'll be right_."

Shepard suddenly turned her glare on Varric. "And you? What should I have said? Oh, sure… whenever you can get to it. _She'll be right_, right?"

Varric shook his head. "No. You could have threatened to cut their heads off, and that would have been acceptable. But the beards… that was crossing the line."

He squinted at the Spectre. "You feeling all right, Starkiller? You seem, I don't know… pants-wettingly scarier than usual tonight."

Shepard growled. "_Fucking_ qunari."

"What is your fascination with the ox-men, anyway? Apart from the visual appeal, that is," asked Isabela.

"In order to get access to the information I want, I had to agree to answer the Arishok's summons and any questions he might have for me," Shepard muttered. "And lately, he's been… persistent. And irritable."

"The Arishok always seems irritable," Anders argued. "How can you tell the difference?"

"Trust me," Shepard told him. "It's obvious."

At that moment a large form blocked the sound and light filtering in through the doorway from the common room downstairs.

"Basra," rumbled a voice. "You are required. Come with me."

"Speak of the devil," Shepard sighed. "Look…" she said, rising to her feet and stepping over to the hulking qunari in the open portal, "please give the Arishok my regrets, and tell him that I will come and see him tomorrow morni…"

Before Shepard could react, she'd been swept into the air and hoisted onto a broad kossith shoulder. There was a tug at her side as the qunari deftly removed her dagger from its sheath, followed by a clunk and a clatter as he tossed it onto the table, hilt first.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Shepard demanded. "Put me down!"

"You will comply, basra." The qunari turned, and began to stalk toward the common room.

Shepard pushed against the kossith's wide, muscular back, and looked back at her friends, staring after her with bemusement.

"And fuck you all, too!" she shouted. "You could at least _try_ to help me."

Varric came to the door of his suite. "Excuse me, qunari?" he called out.

"The basra will not be harmed," said her captor, clumping down the stairs. "The Arishok requests her presence."

"Oh?" said Varric. "Good enough for me. Starkiller? I'll make sure Broody doesn't drink all the wine."

Shepard drove an elbow as hard as she could into her captor's kidney. "I'll get you back for this, Varric Tethras," she threatened.

"She'll be right," he called after her.

**-ooo-**

_Nobody ever trains you for this…_

"You can put me down now," Shepard said tightly. She knew a half-dozen ways to make it easier for a rescuer to transport her in a fireman's carry, but not a single one to extricate herself from an unceremonious sack-of-potatoes carry.

"No."

Following the unscientific but occasionally successful idiom, _when in doubt, flail_, Shepard attempted to free herself through vigorous application of knees and elbows.

She might as well have been throwing herself against a stone wall.

She tried to roll off the side of the qunari's shoulder, and only managed a satisfying, though unplanned, popping of her vertebrae.

In desperation, she corkscrewed her torso and sank her teeth into the soldier's bare side. He tasted of sweat and dust. Interestingly, the perfect geometric pattern of his war paint was unmarrred by her action.

The qunari grunted, and his arm tightened across her legs. "Stop that, basra," he grumbled.

Shepard adopted her best qunari tones. "No," she said, and bit him again, hard enough to draw blood.

In retaliation, the qunari jogged his way down the steps to the docks, forcing the breath out of Shepard's lungs with every footfall. Her concentration soon was entirely focused on how to cushion herself from the jarring.

"The Arishok isn't winning any popularity contests with me right now," Shepard gasped, when her captor reached the docks.

"It is only necessary that you obey," came the rumbled response. "Not that you are pleased."

"He's just lucky I don't have a missile launcher," muttered Shepard darkly, folding her arms and resigning herself to being lugged before the qunari leader.

After a moment, Shepard had a thought. "What color are your eyes, sten?" she asked innocently.

There was a puzzled silence. "That is not relevant," the soldier finally said.

"Yes it is," Shepard insisted. "You are a sten, aren't you?"

"Yes," came the reluctant reply.

"And your eyes?" she repeated.

"It does not matter," snapped the sten.

"Yes it does," Shepard snapped back. "Because if I get the chance to spar with you, jackass, you are going _down_."

The sten ignored her, so Shepard fumed in inverted silence for the rest of the trip through the compound and to the Arishok's library tent.

It was obvious Shepard hadn't positively impressed the sten. Instead of setting her back on her feet, the soldier dumped Shepard on her backside on the dirt floor.

Clamping down firmly on the impulse to leap to her feet and introduce her former captor to her bare knuckles - a move that would likely hurt _her_ far more than _him_ - Shepard gathered what dignity she could and glared up at the Arishok.

"And what the hell is the meaning of this?" she asked, icily.

The Arishok traded words with the sten, his gaze darkening as he saw the blood on the soldier's side when the other turned to leave.

"You ignored my request," he snapped, when the sten had disappeared through the flaps.

Shepard got to her feet and dusted herself off with what she hoped amounted to haughty disdain. "Your request was unreasonable," she growled.

"That is not for you to decide!" roared the Arishok, rising to his feet and leaning forward over the table.

"Like hell it's not!" Shepard roared back, slapping her hands on the table and leaning forward as well. "You've been dragging me down here for _no fucking reason_ day in and day out, and I'm _sick_ of it!"

"No more," she said flatly, staring him down for the first time in nearly two weeks. After so long swallowing her retorts and casting her eyes down or to the side, it felt good to finally look him in the eye and answer back. "From now on, you better have a damn good reason for sending for me."

The Arishok's gaze had steadily darkened while she railed at him, but when he spoke, his voice was even and low. "I do not require a reason that you understand, basra. I do not need to justify myself to you, now, or ever. I act as the qun demands."

"And I act as _Shepard_ demands," Shepard replied, matching his tone.

"You are bas," the Arishok growled. "Without meaning or purpose. Your demands are irrelevant."

Something inside Shepard snapped at that moment. She reared back, and launched her head forward viciously, driving her forehead into the giant's.

"Vashedan!" she snarled back at him.

Shepard didn't know if the horned giants had a tradition of headbutting, but the krogan did, and Shepard had picked up her style from the best of clan Urdnot. When her forehead spoke, it demanded respect.

A bead of blood began to rise from a split in the Arishok's left eyebrow, and a deep, threatening rumble from his chest. For a long moment, he simply stared at Shepard, nostrils flaring, and then his left hand flashed out, locking around Shepard's wrist like a shackle. Turning his body, he came around the end of the table, dragging Shepard with him. Shepard tried to resist, but she might as well have tried to stop a Mako.

She tried to break his grip and when that failed, she unloaded a left hook with her full body weight and the Arishok's own momentum behind it.

He caught her wrist, stopping the punch cold, and shoved her against the table, the edge digging into the small of her back. Shepard struggled in his grasp, but he'd been obviously paying attention during her sparring matches - he'd learned her style well enough to anticipate her actions. He pinned her with one massive thigh between hers, neutralizing her ability to kick, and forced her wrists wide and slightly behind her shoulders, controlling the whole of her upper body and eliminating any chance for her to headbutt him a second time.

Not even Thane had been able to control her body to this extent. And all the while his eyes were on her, and the deep rumbling growl resonated in his chest.

The Arishok's lips were pulled back from his teeth, and as he brought his massive head closer, Shepard could see their sharp points. She could smell him, too, leather and metal and oil, over some kind of faint musky scent that reminded her of sandalwood, and the charged ozone tang of his anger. His narrowed eyes were only a bare glint of gold in darkness.

_Shit. I'm going to get my ass _handed_ to me._

And then his mouth was on hers, hard and demanding, and Shepard found her brain stuttering to a stop.

* * *

_A/N: The bit with Hawke and Varric is dedicated to every woman who has attempted to apologize to a man, only to find that the man doesn't even remember that he was pissed at her._

_You men out there? You've probably done this. Trust me._


	29. Chapter 28

**Chapter Twenty-Eight**

The Arishok withdrew slowly, his eyes glittering as he stared down at Shepard. Abruptly, he released her, turning on his heel and stalking out of the tent without so much as a backward glance.

Shepard's eyes slitted dangerously.

"Like fucking hell," she snarled, and ran after him.

"Arishok!" she yelled at his stiffly retreating form. "Don't you fucking walk away!"

He ignored her.

She caught up to the giant and grabbed at his arm. "Dammit…"

The Arishok brushed her off as if she were no more than an irritating fly.

Shepard was beyond rational thought. Perhaps that was why she resorted to the second oldest schoolyard trick in the book, and kicked his right heel as his foot left the ground, sending it crashing into his left ankle.

Kossith do not have the same kind of schoolyards.

It might have made Shepard happy, had she been able to see the look of utter confusion on the Arishok's face as he tripped over his own foot, stumbled, and fell. She wasn't looking, however. She was too busy kicking him in the ribs.

With a roar, the Arishok lurched to his feet. Shepard, who had followed up the kick by dropping a knee into his kidney, was flung backwards. She landed on her ass, but scrambled up immediately, fists clenched, as the Arishok rounded on her.

What Shepard threw at him wasn't a punch that could be found in any military hand-to-hand manual. It was part roundhouse, part uppercut, and all frustration. It connected with the corner of the Arishok's chin carrying enough force to stagger the giant.

The Arishok shook his head to clear it, and bared his teeth.

He caught Shepard around the neck, and slammed her into a stack of crates. Immediately, his body was pressed against hers, holding her pinned to the crates with her feet off the ground. The massive kossith's breathing was harsh and ragged, and blood trickled from the cut in his eyebrow and from his lower lip where his teeth had caught it.

Shepard's hands scrabbled at his gauntleted hand and forearm, seeking a point of weakness. His free hand caught one of her wrists, forcing it back against the wooden crates. Methodically, he shifted his body, pushing harder against her, and then released her neck, grabbing instead for her other wrist.

In desperation, Shepard tried to bend one knee and get a foot up against the crates to lever her body away from them. But shoving away from the crates only meant thrusting herself against the Arishok. She howled with anger and frustration.

"Pashaara!"

The voice was like the crack of a whip. Shepard felt the Arishok's body tense.

The voice snapped out another few words. Reluctantly, his grip on her wrists eased and the pressure of his body against hers withdrew enough that the Arishok could lower her to her feet. Shepard could still feel the heat radiating from him, though, and his eyes…

With startling suddenness, he was gone, the torchlight glinting off the golden bands on his horns as he strode away. Shepard looked after him for a moment, and then to Asa, who was glaring at her furiously.

"What. The. Fuck," Shepard breathed.

She shook herself. "What the fuck?!" she repeated, anger creeping into her voice. "Asa?"

"What did you do to him?" demanded the healer.

"Me?!" Shepard advanced on the qunari. "He… he kissed me! What the hell is going on, Asa?"

"He…" Asa gaped at her for a moment. Then he swore, colorfully and at length.

Adrenaline was still humming in Shepard's veins, and she was itching to finish the fight… any fight. "You owe me a fucking explanation, qunari," she growled. "Right now."

Asa stared at her angrily. "Come with me," he said shortly, spinning on his heel and striding off into the compound.

"Where are we going?" Shepard asked warily.

"You and I are going to have a talk," Asa replied, "about what you just did, and about why it was the worst thing possible."

**-ooo-**

"Do you think we should be worried?" Hawke asked, buying another card and staring thoughtfully at her hand.

Varric shook his head. "Starkiller knows what she's doing." He scratched thoughtfully at his stubbled chin. "I hope."

"But you say that this qunari just came and… and… abducted her."

Anders nodded. "Tossed her over his shoulder like a sack of onions."

"Mmmm. Do any of you think it would be possible to talk Sebastian into doing that to me?" Isabela asked, a dreamy look on her face.

Hawke frowned down at her cards. "Shouldn't we do something?"

"Do not meddle with the qunari," said Fenris sagely, "for ox-men are huge and quick to anger." He paused, as if pondering his own words, and added, "I call."

"Woof," said Griffon, and proved to have the final word on the subject.

**-ooo-**

The healer's tent was really only partially a tent. That is, it was a tent pitched against the door of a building. Shepard had previously only been in the actual tent portion, but now Asa led her through a wide door and into what - by the unfortunate olfactory history - had once almost certainly been a fish drying facility. The space was now an infirmary and field hospital. Had Shepard been slightly less angry, she might have appreciated how well-ordered and… military… it was

A small room off the main area was set up as both Asa's living quarters and what appeared to be a laboratory. Wordlessly, the healer lit a brazier and set a teapot atop it, and then settled himself on a wooden stool, his arms folded over his chest.

"So," said Shepard, "care to explain why you blame _me_ for the Arishok's actions?"

Asa's eyes were still hard with anger. "The kossith are not like humans. Or elves, or even dwarves," he said tightly. "They do not have sex for pleasure. _Ever_."

"And this is my fault _how_?" Shepard mimicked his pose, folding her arms and leaning her shoulder against the wall. Her hand throbbed from when she'd punched the Arishok. It was an old and familiar pain, and one that meant she'd probably broken at least one of the bones in her hand. She ignored it.

"I wasn't finished," Asa snapped at her.

Sardonically, Shepard gave him a little wave of her hand that said _by all means, continue_.

The healer took a deep breath. "Kossith females only become fertile once a year," he said. "This, in turn, causes kossith males to become… interested… in mating. The term they use for it translates in the common tongue as _the burning tide_. The rest of the time, kossith have no interest in sex whatsoever."

Shepard shook her head. "Don't look at me," she retorted. "All female soldiers in the Alliance receive subdermal implants," she tapped one of her biceps lightly, "that completely repress their menstrual cycle."

Asa flashed her a look of irritation at the interruption. "Normally," he continued, "when a female starts showing symptoms, the tamassrans select a male to breed with her, and the pair are sequestered for a time to allow mating to take place uninterrupted."

"You make kossith women sound like broodmares being put to a stud," Shepard complained. "Don't they have any say about it?"

"Their…desire…is to find a strong, healthy male and reproduce. The tamassrans merely provide the particular male." Asa shrugged. "The outcome is the same."

Shepard gaped at him incredulously. "What about love?" she demanded. "Affection?"

"Love and affection both exist," Asa told her calmly. "They just have nothing to do with sex."

"Oh, come on!" Shepard exclaimed. "What about pair bonding?"

Asa gave her a half-shrug. "For most creatures, a pair bond exists to improve the chances for offspring to survive to maturity. Qunari children are raised communally by the tamassrans. There would be no purpose in pair bonding."

Shepard drummed her fingers against her arm. "Okay then," she said, granting him the point reluctantly, "what about physical attraction?"

Asa exhaled sharply through his nose. "Before the qun, males would compete for females' attention. Females chose the most successful. That is about the extent _attraction_ plays in kossith reproduction."

Shepard shook her head mutely.

_Look at it this way, Shepard. It's no different from the salarians. They don't have any interest in _sex_, just their damned 'reproductive contracts', right?_

Her eyes narrowed.

_Yeah, but Mordin never pinned me against his lab bench and kissed me, either._

"Fine. I get it," she said, finally. "The kossith don't have the same emotional or physiological responses as humans. What I _don't_ get is how this has _anything_ to do with me. I'm not kossith, and I'm not… er, fertile. I shouldn't provoke that kind of a response, should I?"

Wisps of steam had begun to escape from the teapot. Asa rose and went to a small cupboard set against the wall, opening a door and extracting a jar of loose tea and a long metal hook. He moved the teapot off the brazier and delicately hooked the lid, lifting it free so that he could shake some tea into the simmering water. He replaced the lid and turned back to face Shepard.

"The behavior of a kossith female changes drastically when she's ready to mate," Asa said coolly. "She becomes aggressive and confrontational with males, as a way of testing the strength and vigor of a potential mate."

"Let me guess… the rest of the time females are meek and submissive?" Shepard grated harshly.

Asa shook his head. "No. Kossith females are neither meek nor submissive. But they _are_ notoriously calm and level-headed. When it is time for her to mate, that all changes. In fact," Asa's eyes bored into hers like a thermal drill, "a female will often physically fight with her selected mate _just prior_ to copulation. Sound familiar?"

"What?" Shepard started, shifting off the wall and dropping her arms. "That's… Soldiers fight," she said. "It's part of the job description. Routine sparring is part of training, for god's sake! It has nothing to do with… with _reproduction_."

"Females are _never_ soldiers among the qunari," Asa pointed out. "There are only two times a female kossith is ever likely to fight - in defense, or to test a mate."

"But not all qunari are kossith," Shepard argued. "What about the humans and elves and dwarves who convert to the qun?"

Asa pursed his lips slightly before he answered. "The tamassrans take our nature into account, of course. Some things - like breeding - are handled differently for the different races within the qunari. But the roles for men and women are the same, regardless of whether an individual is kossith or elven or human or even a dwarf. Females may hold many other roles in the qun, but they are _never_ of the antaam."

"But your… tamassrans must have anticipated that the army would come across different cultures at some point. Didn't they, I don't know… _plan_… for this kind of contingency?" Shepard demanded irritably.

"I do not believe it has happened before," Asa replied simply. "You are… unusual, Shepard. You carry yourself with the self-assurance of a seasoned warrior used to command. You wear your armor like a second skin, and your weapons as if they were an extension of your limbs, like a soldier of the antaam. And yet you are female."

"Most cultures here in Thedas don't seem to have any problem with women being soldiers. You _have_ to have come across female fighters before." Shepard folded her arms again. "I can't be _that_ unusual."

"On the contrary. _You_ show no fear. Most bas fear the qunari, especially the kossith. They are… physically imposing."

"I've noticed," said Shepard dryly. "But that still doesn't account for… all this. Hell, the Arishok has dealt with Hawke on numerous occasions, and I don't see _her_ having this problem."

The healer gave her a level stare. "Your friend Hawke is wary of the qunari, as well she should be. You, on the other hand… From the very start _you_ treated the Arishok as an _equal_."

Shepard's brow rose. "And? He's a soldier. I'm a soldier. But - and here's the important part - I'm not one of _his_ soldiers. Whatever you - or _he_ - might think, he doesn't outrank me."

Asa quirked an eyebrow at her. "I am not one of his soldiers either. I do not answer to his authority, and yet I do not presume to treat him as an equal."

"You do talk back to him though," Shepard pointed out with a faint smile. "I've seen it."

"As I said, I do not answer to his authority. But I am not his equal."

Shepard snorted. "Well, technically, I am the ranking officer from my government's armed forces. He is the ranking officer from his. We're in neutral, non-contested territory. That means we _are_ equals."

The healer exhaled forcefully again. "Shepard, in all of Thedas there are only _two people_ who are the Arishok's equals. And you are not one of them."

Shepard sighed in frustration and ran a hand through her tangled hair. "Look, Asa, it's obvious that this is a case of cultural misunderstanding. Let's move on and try to put it behind us. You can explain to the Arishok that I wasn't…propositioning…him by my actions, and I will apologize for knocking him on his ass and punching him, all right?"

The qunari healer shook his head firmly. "It is not that simple, basra."

"Of course it isn't." Shepard rolled her eyes. "Nothing's _ever_ simple for me."

She sighed again, and scowled at the ground. "Why couldn't you have told me about this sooner, Asa?"

"It was not necessary for you to know the details," the healer replied evenly.

"Not necessary?" Shepard repeated incredulously. "The hell it wasn't! Maybe if I'd have known, I could have done something to stop it."

"Like what?" he asked sharply. "Following my directions so you wouldn't provoke him further?!"

Shepard flushed. "Like maybe talking to him? Explaining that I'm not… I don't know… trying to turn him on?" She pointed an accusatory finger at Asa. "And don't you think it would have been a good idea for_ you_ to tell him that he was starting to show signs of this… burning tide thing? You know, trying to _prevent_ the problem instead of getting all pissed off about it afterwards?"

"He would not have believed me," Asa replied flatly. "This is not something that should happen."

"No shit," Shepard agreed. "But why wouldn't he have believed you? You're a doctor, for god's sake."

Asa's jaw set firmly. "I told you before. It is not the role of a healer to deal with this sort of thing. It is a role that belongs to the tamassrans, and the tamassrans _never_ allow crossbreeding. He would say it was impossible."

"Well, now we all know it isn't," Shepard said with a trace of impatience. "And, now that we're all _aware_ of the problem, why don't we figure out a solution, hmm?"

Asa gave her a reproachful look. "This isn't something that can just be… shut off."

"Well, no," Shepard blinked. "I wasn't suggesting that it was. But if he realizes what's going on, it shouldn't be a problem for the two of us to keep our distance until this thing wears off, right?"

She frowned. "You're shaking your head again. Why? What am I missing?"

"This isn't something he can consciously control," Asa told her. "It's… reflexive. Or instinctual, perhaps."

"Yeah, I get that," Shepard nodded. "But if there's no female around to mate with, it will go away, right?"

"The problem is deeper than that, basra."

Shepard huffed. "Deeper how?"

Asa sighed heavily. "There are _reasons_ why a kossith mating pair are sequestered by the tamassrans. The burning tide is all-consuming. Those kossith who are subject to it have very little conscious control over their actions, despite their best intentions. Females _will_ test the male, over and over again, and males _will_ make every attempt to subdue the female in order to mate with her. During this time, the male will also see all other males as competition, regardless of whether the other males are affected or even show interest in the female."

Shepard scrubbed her face wearily. "I see. I take it you're going to have to sequester the Arishok until this runs its course, then?"

Asa gave her a helpless look. "I cannot."

"Why the hell not?"

"I am no tamassran, Shepard," Asa snapped.

"But there aren't any tamassrans here, you said. Can't you perform the duties of one in a pinch?"

"No."

Shepard slumped against the wall. "Let me get this straight… You're saying that the Arishok is going to be more than a little out of control and quite possibly a danger to everyone around him until he gets over this thing, and you can't do anything about it?"

Asa gave Shepard a wry look. "Now do you understand why I wanted to keep you from provoking him further?"

Shepard groaned. "And how long does this _burning tide_ usually last?"

The healer waved a hand vaguely. "Mating pairs are often sequestered for up to three weeks. Successful conception causes yet another change in the female, which generally triggers the male to lose interest."

Shepard frowned. "But what if the female doesn't conceive, or - like now - there isn't a female to mate with?"

Asa shrugged. "Who knows? Besides the tamassrans, and we seem to be fresh out of those."

"_Shit_. Why couldn't I have just died in the explosion?" Shepard muttered sourly.

This was a sufficient non sequitur to completely confuse the qunari healer. "What explosion?" he asked.

"The one that stranded me here," Shepard said. "Things probably would have been easier for me if I'd just died the way I was supposed to."

"Probably?" Asa's confusion deepened. "But you would have been _dead_."

"You'd be surprised how hard it is for me to stay that way."

**-ooo-**

The night was far advanced, but there were some things that couldn't wait for morning.

_The qunari's eyes burned with desire as his raven-haired captive stared up at him defiantly, her sleekly muscled body taut against the soft ropes which bound her._

"_You will submit, Shepard," he growled._

"_Never," the warrior declared, her soft, full lips pulled into a scowl._

"_You are wrong," breathed the qunari, as he lowered his head to plunder those lips. "It is a demand of the qun, and I _will_ satisfy it."_

"Mmmm," hummed Isabela in appreciation, as she brushed the end of the quill over her own lips. "Lucky qunari bastard."

She dipped the quill in the inkpot again and set the tip against the cheap paper.

**-ooo-**

"What about just getting him drunk and buying him a hooker?" Shepard sipped at the tea Asa had poured her gingerly. "It works for the males of most other species."

"A hooker?" Asa questioned.

Shepard grimaced as she burned her tongue on the hot liquid. "Sorry," she apologized. "A prostitute."

The healer frowned. "I don't think that would work," he said doubtfully. "First, it would be very difficult to get the Arishok intoxicated, and second, I'm pretty sure that he won't respond to just any female."

Asa sipped at his tea. "No, I'm afraid it's all about you, Shepard."

"I don't suppose you people know about masturbation, either," she grumbled. "I'm sure it's one of the things the qunari claim has no purpose."

"You would be wrong," replied Asa smugly. "Among the viddithari, human males, in particular, are instructed to make use of the procedure in order to relieve tension."

"What about women?" Shepard asked. "Aren't they allowed to _relieve tension_?"

Asa shrugged. "Women seem to be able to relieve tension in other ways."

"I bet they're doing it and just not telling anyone."

"Perhaps," Asa conceded.

"Okay, then. There you go. Have the Arishok…_ease his tension_…a couple times a day for a week or so, and see if that helps."

The look the healer gave her was icy. "No."

"You aren't being helpful, Asa."

"I wasn't the one who convinced _the Arishok_ to mate with me," he growled.

"I didn't do it on purpose! Besides, except for tonight, the only times I've fought here have been at his request."

An expression vaguely akin to panic spread across her face. "Oh, fuck. Don't tell me that everyone I've sparred with thinks I wanted to… you know."

"You appear to be lucky, Shepard," the healer replied. "As of right now, only the Arishok seems affected." He paused, lifting his tea to his lips. "If you could call that _luck_."

"Not exactly." Shepard tapped her fingers against the cup. "There has to be _something_ we can do."

"If it didn't go against everything I believe in, I'd say yes, there is something," Asa admitted.

"What?" asked Shepard, suddenly full of hope.

"Mate with him."

Shepard's face froze. "That's not an option, qunari," she growled.

"I didn't say it was," Asa replied sharply.

"I'll just stay away from him," Shepard suggested. "Hide out in the Chantry, or something."

"Won't work," Asa said. "He _will_ come find you. Probably personally, at this point."

Shepard thought about the look in the Arishok's eyes, and the heat of his body against hers, and felt a shiver run up her spine. "Okay. Bad idea. But what if I was just… gone… for a while?"

Asa lifted an eyebrow inquiringly.

Shepard took a gulp of still-too-hot tea and winced. "There are," she croaked, her vocal cords protesting the burning deluge, "two sites outside of Kirkwall I wanted to check out."

At the healer's still questioning expression, Shepard continued. "They're old ruins. I'm hoping that they might be storing…information…that could help me get home, or at least help me understand how…uh, I came to be here," she edited herself at the last minute, remembering that Asa knew nothing about her search for prothean artifacts.

"A trip away from Kirkwall?" Asa asked, his eyes thoughtful.

"I was planning on doing it at some point, yeah. I'll probably be gone for a few weeks, at least." She shot Asa a questioning look. "Do you think it would work? If he didn't know where I was, apart from the fact that I wasn't in Kirkwall?"

"I… am not sure."

Shepard fidgeted. "Isn't it worth a try?" she asked.

The healer rubbed his chin absently. "Yes," he said finally, "I think it would be."

All the breath left Shepard in a rush. She hadn't realized she'd been holding it.

"Good," she said with satisfaction. She tossed back the rest of her tea. "I'll start the preparations tomorrow morning."

* * *

_Notes:_

_1) The **oldest** schoolyard trick in the book would be the wedgie._

_2) This is another place where I will happily deviate from canon. Okay, so the kossith don't have sex for fun. Fine. But I just don't buy that there isn't anything in their biology that pushes them to do the horizontal mamba. So I made shit up. _

_3) Yes, I was influenced heavily by Star Trek in calling the kossith breeding cycle "the burning tide". However, the male behavioral changes I describe are my creative liberties with the rut of various horned ungulates, where males seem to lose track of their brains and do all sorts of dumbass things in the name of procreation. Moose, in particular, _really_ get stupid._

_4) Out of sympathy for those that were all, "GAH, CLIFFHANGER!", I cut this chapter really short to get it posted quickly. I have to admit I was** amazed** by the number of responses to the last chapter. Some caught all the foreshadowing, and some did not, and I was pleased as punch by this - I was afraid I was hitting people over the head with it. _

_5) As an aside to 4) above, can I say, Wow, I had no idea people hated the Arishok so much. I adore him, just like I adored Sten. I find the qunari interesting and fun to ponder. _

_6) As an aside to 5) above, can I also say that I don't take requests. I write what's in my head. While I love it when people enjoy what I write, I understand it's not to everyone's taste. If you don't enjoy it, please, don't force yourself to read it._

_7) As an aside to 6) above, I will state firmly and for the record, there will be additional smutty bits in this fic. But this will NOT be Hawke and Shepard, unless they get really drunk one night and have some kind of giggling girly fun without my permission. If so, I imagine they'll both be very embarrassed in the morning. Let that be a lesson to you all. No binge drinking._

_7a) And finally, I realized that the summary might have been misleading people into thinking that this was definitely going to be a Hawke/Shep pairing. My apologies to those of you who were misled, and I have edited the summary to fix this mistake for anyone who stumbles on this fic in the future._

_-TB  
_


	30. Chapter 29

**Chapter Twenty-Nine**

Shepard slept uneasily through what remained of the night, plagued by unsettling dreams she couldn't remember on waking. In the morning, she dressed in her armor and cautiously left the apartment, half expecting to find the Arishok waiting for her outside. She was relieved to find he wasn't, but nevertheless hurried through Lowtown in an effort to put as much distance between herself and the docks as possible.

Her first stop was Hawke's estate, which appeared to be full of dwarves working at cross-purposes. To be fair, the majority were working with the singular purpose of all plumbers everywhere - namely, making as much of a house uninhabitable as possible while stretching the job out as long as possible. Their progress was hindered and occasionally assisted by Bodahn, who seemed on the verge of a manservant-y meltdown, and Sandal, who insinuated himself in everything the plumbers did with intermittent cries of _"enchantment!"_.

Word of Shepard's threats must have gotten around. The plumbers eyed her warily, as if she would turn Sweeney Todd on them at any moment. Nils - or was it Adan? - bustled up to her with a worried air.

"Still waiting on materials for your bath, serah," he hastened to tell her. "We expect to see them in a few days."

Shepard folded her arms. "You may just have found yourselves lucky. It looks as though I will be out of Kirkwall for a week or two."

"Oh?" Nils said hopefully. Unless it was Adan.

"I'll leave the details with Varric, along with the keys to the front door," she informed him. Her arm snaked out and captured a passing dwarf. "Hold on, hold on!"

The dwarf at the end of her arm jerked to a stop. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry, messere," Bodahn puffed. "I didn't see you arrive."

"Is Hawke around?" Shepard asked.

"She and her mother are in the kitchen, messere. Shall I show you to them?"

Shepard shook her head. "Don't worry about it, Bodahn. I know where it's at, and I can see you're busy…er, overseeing the work."

Bodahn shook his head ruefully. "They'll have the whole building down around our ears!" he moaned, and then stiffened in her grasp. "Not the inlay," he shouted to a dwarf wielding a pickax. "NOT THE INLAY!" He shook himself free of Shepard and hurried in the other dwarf's direction, hands waving madly. Shepard gave his back a wry quirk of her lips, and headed for the kitchen.

Hawke looked pleased to see her, and motioned for Shepard to join her and her mother at the table.

"Shepard!" she said. "You managed to escape from our qunari friends, I see."

"Barely," Shepard replied. "Listen, Hawke, I need a favor."

"Oh?" Hawke's eyes sparkled. "This sounds interesting."

"I need to borrow some of your people for a couple of weeks."

"Borrow my people?" Hawke's eyebrows arched in surprise. "They don't really belong to me, but I'd be happy to lend them to you anyway. It's always more fun to lend things that don't belong to you."

"Lily!" Leandra snapped.

Hawke assumed an innocent expression. "It's true, mother. I don't have a receipt for a single one of them."

She turned her attention back to the Spectre. "What mysterious thing are you getting up to, Shepard?"

"I've found mention of some ruins outside Kirkwall that date to before humans lived in the Free Marches. I'd like to take Sebastian and Anders, if he can spare the time away from his clinic, and go check them out."

"What?" Hawke demanded playfully, "Not me?"

Shepard looked surprised. "I thought you'd be busy with other things. It seems someone's always got something they need you to take care of."

Hawke tilted her head. "Well, yes. But I'm still hurt you didn't ask."

Shepard gave the rogue a look. "Hawke, do you wanna go poking around in dusty old ruins with me?"

Hawke gave her a grin. "I'd love to, Shepard, but I have to hunt down some assassins that are after a runaway mage."

Shepard nodded. "Right. Everything good now?"

Hawke's grin widened. "We're good."

"Will it be okay if I commandeer those two for a while?"

The rogue shrugged. "That's up to them. It shouldn't interfere with what I've got to do." Her expression grew curious. "Why those two?"

"Sebastian has traveled through most of the Free Marches, and he knows his history. Anders is a healer. We'll be out in the middle of nowhere without backup or the chance of evac. I'd like to be prepared for emergencies."

She shrugged. "Plus, there's that whole darkspawn thing. I don't know a whole lot about what might be waiting for us in these ruins, and it's always nice to have an early warning detection system."

Hawke pursed her lips thoughtfully. "I hate to even suggest it, given that you're planning on bringing Anders with you, but… are you sure you wouldn't like Fenris to go with you as well?"

"This is recon, not an assault," Shepard said with a shake of her head. "If we run into a lot of hostiles, I plan on bugging the hell out faster than you can say _tactical withdrawal_."

"Well, you know your own mind best," Hawke said doubtfully. "So I won't argue. But… let me know if plans change, all right?"

"I will." Shepard pushed herself up from the table, wincing slightly. "And now I need to go see Anders and have him heal my hand before I run into the Arishok again."

"Shepard! Are you holding out on me?" Hawke asked with a sly narrowing of her eyes.

Shepard rolled her shoulders to straighten her armor. "The Arishok and I had… a difference of opinion last night," she said primly.

"And he didn't split you down the middle with that sword of his?" Hawke's voice was incredulous.

Shepard cleared her throat uncomfortably, berating herself for the the image conjured by the innocent double entendre. She schooled her expression carefully. "I'm sure he would have liked to," she replied, entendre for entendre.

Hawke gave Shepard a disbelieving shake of her head. "You must be the luckiest woman alive," the rogue declared.

There wasn't so much as a flicker in Shepard's expression as she answered, "I wouldn't go that far."

The rogue tipped her head. "Ah. So it must be your infamous qunari charming skills, then."

A muscle just under Shepard's left eye twitched. Try as she might, she couldn't keep that one from getting through.

"Luck is more likely," she hastened to say. "But remember, Hawke," Shepard reminded the rogue wryly. "There are _two_ kinds of luck. I think this is the other sort."

**-ooo-**

"What did you do, Shepard? Punch a stone wall?"

Anders' fingers carefully prodded the bruising on the back of Shepard's hand.

"Something like that," she answered evasively. "Can you fix it for me? The implants will do it in a few days, but…"

The healer gave her a wry glance. "But I can do it in just a few minutes?"

Shepard gave him a sheepish nod.

"Well, actually, there's something else, too."

Anders lifted a blond eyebrow curiously. "What _else_ did you manage to break on a thick qunari skull?"

"Nothing else," she said with a faint smile, watching as the mage's hands lit with energy. "It's just a favor I have to ask."

"Oh?" There was a tiny crease in his brow as he worked.

"I'm going to be leaving Kirkwall for a few weeks, to take a look at some ruins out near Cumberland. I'd like you to come with me."

The healer's blond head snapped up. "Me? Why?"

With an amused lift of her brow, she gestured to his faintly glowing fingers, wrapped around her injured hand.

"Also," she reminded him, "you're the one with the darkspawn radar."

"I wish to the Maker I wasn't," he snorted.

Shepard raised her shoulders and let them fall. "We can't change the past," she said softly.

"No," he answered, just as quietly. "You're right about that."

He stared down at her hand where it lay clasped gently between his own, the bruising already faded to nothing. "If I do this for you," he said finally, looking up into her eyes, "can I count on you to return the favor sometime soon?"

Shepard cocked her head. "What's up, Anders?"

The mage shook his head. "I'm not sure. Not now, anyway." His face took on the bitter, ugly expression it always wore when he spoke of the Chantry or the templars. "But I've been hearing some rumors I don't like the sound of. About mages being forced into the Rite of Tranquility, even after they've passed their Harrowing."

Shepard's eyes narrowed and her expression turned flinty. "That's that…lobotomy thing the templars do to mages, right?"

"Severing the connection to the Fade, yes," he answered shortly. "It's… it's worse than death."

"What are you planning?"

Anders shook his head again. "I don't know. Not yet. I'm…waiting for information." He took a deep breath. "But then… You'll help me?"

Shepard gave him a slow nod. "I'll help you."

"Good." There was relief in the honey-brown eyes. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate your help, Shepard."

Shepard snorted. "I think the deal was a favor for a favor, right? Although," she gave him an oddly affectionate look. "I'd imagine I'm already considerably in your debt for saving my life a few times."

"That doesn't mean I appreciate the help any less," he said seriously.

Shepard's eyes flashed at him humorously. "Does it mean you'll come with me?"

"Oh, all right," he said, with a ghost of a grin. "But please tell me you're not bringing the angry elf with us?"

She shook her head. "No. Just Sebastian… I hope."

Anders grimaced. "Not a vast improvement, but at least I won't have to worry about being hacked to pieces in my sleep."

"Fenris wouldn't do that," she scolded reprovingly.

"Want to bet?" the mage snorted.

"He'd rather look you in the eye while he ripped the still-beating heart from your chest," Shepard corrected simply.

The healer rolled his eyes.

"Ah, yes. I was forgetting."

**-ooo-**

"I've been to Cumberland a few times, yes. Why?" Sebastian paused in his task, the smell of the lemon oil he was using to clean the pews surrounding him like a cloak.

Shepard leaned back against the end of a pew, folding her arms and crossing her ankles comfortably. "I found a book in the library that mentions some ancient ruins about twenty miles outside the city."

Sebastian frowned. "I don't recall ever having heard that," he said slowly. "What kind of ruins? Barrows?"

"The scholar who wrote it seemed to think they were the remains of an elven temple complex. He doesn't mention burials, though."

"I'm not sure why you would be interested in elven ruins, Shepard," the exiled prince murmured, reapplying a rag to the wood.

"The scholar believed they were older than the first human settlements in the Free Marches - older than the Imperium, in fact. They may simply be the ruins of an elven temple, or they could be something left by the protheans."

"The protheans being one of the races from your world?"

"Not Earth, no."

Sebastian paused again. "Forgive me. I knew that. I suppose I meant from _one_ of the worlds you know."

"They were wiped out fifty thousand years ago."

"Ah, yes," the prince murmured. "Now I remember. They were destroyed by the Reapers, you said." He gave a faint, rueful shake of his head. "I'm afraid that I was a little…overwhelmed… that night."

Shepard gave him a small shrug. "It isn't every day that the universe as you know it changes. I'd say you handled it better than most."

Sebastian acknowledged the compliment with a slight incline of his head. "I am sorry that I can't help you further. Were there any other scholars to mention the ruins? Perhaps another might have more breadth of knowledge."

"I wasn't actually looking to pick your brain on the subject," Shepard told him. As Sebastian's face contorted in puzzlement, she clarified. "It's an expression that means asking someone for what they know."

"Oh?" the prince managed, raising his auburn brows.

"I'd like you to come with me to Cumberland to see the ruins for myself."

"Go with you?"

"You're intelligent, educated, and you've traveled. You can keep me from making a fool of myself, or worse, a target," Shepard explained. She grinned. "You also make an excellent cover. If anyone is overly curious, we can tell them that you're a Chantry scholar investigating the ruins."

Sebastian looked uncertain. "I… honestly do not know, Shepard. I have promised Hawke…"

"I've already spoken to Hawke," Shepard said. "She assures me that she doesn't have anything that requires your talent at the moment."

The prince refolded the oily rag and set it against the back of a pew, but hesitated after only a few half-hearted rubs. "How long do you plan to be in Cumberland?" he asked, finally.

Shepard shrugged. "I don't know. A couple of weeks? Three at the outside? I imagine it will take a little while to get there and back, but I expect exploring the ruins themselves won't take more than a few days."

"You plan to take ship, then?"

"A boat?" Shepard frowned. "No, I hadn't. Why?"

Sebastian smiled faintly. "Shepard, it takes nearly a month to travel to Cumberland by foot."

"By foot? You mean walking?" The Spectre looked stunned. "Don't you have, I don't know, stagecoaches or something? You know, that go faster?"

"By all means," said Sebastian, his smile widening slightly. "If you were to have, say, a coach and four, we could make the trip in perhaps a fortnight."

"If _I was to have_? What about, er… for hire?" Shepard huffed in disgust. "Haven't you people ever heard of public transportation?"

"No."

Shepard slumped. "And how long does it take by boat?"

"Ship," Sebastian corrected gently. "Three days, if the weather holds fine."

"And would this be dependent on my happening to have a ship?" Shepard asked snidely.

"Not at all. Many ships take passengers as well as cargo."

"Well, thank god for small favors, I suppose."

The prince gave her a thoughtful stare. "Which god would this be?"

Shepard gave him a look. "None, really. It's safe to say that any expression involving _god_ is just a figure of speech on my part."

He cocked his head. "You really have never been drawn to the divine? Or even to that which is holy in man?"

Shepard sighed. "My father died when I was young, Sebastian. I grew up on the streets - fell in with a gang called the Reds when I was, oh, about eleven." She squinted her eyes at the prince. "I killed my first man - another gangbanger, from a rival gang - when I was fourteen. As a soldier I've fought slavers and terrorists and mercenaries. What do I know about that which is holy in man?"

Sebastian's expression grew troubled.

Shepard ran her hands through her hair. "I'm… sorry," she apologized. She pushed away from the pew. "I'll… let you get back to work."

"Shepard, wait," he called, before she had taken more than a few steps. "I… when should I be ready to leave?"

She stopped, and turned back to face the prince. "Really? You'll go with me?"

Sebastian gave her a genuine smile. "I will go with you."

Shepard returned it, her deep green eyes shimmering like the depths of the ocean in the dim light of the Chantry. "Thank you, Sebastian. I owe you for this."

**-ooo-**

"A ship?" exclaimed Isabela. "What do you need my help for?"

Shepard gave the other woman an impatient look. "You're the pirate around here, right?"

Isabela shifted slightly on her bar stool. "Well, yes," she said. "But you had your own ship, too."

"Isabela, you _saw_ my ship. About the most the Normandy ever had to do with water was landing in the shallows of a lagoon on Virmire once. And that was the first Normandy - I don't even think the second Normandy_ touched_ a body of water. I wouldn't know a galleon from a garbage scow."

The pirate gave her an amused glance. "Yes you would. The garbage scow is the one that smells worse but handles slightly better."

"A garbage scow handles better than a galleon?"

"They're both pigs," said Isabela. "But galleons are also top heavy." She rolled her eyes. "You've made your point, though. I'll go with you to the docks and find you a ship."

"Uh, actually…" Shepard shifted her weight from foot to foot nervously, "would it be possible for you to take care of it on your own? I'm… trying to avoid the docks as much as possible right now."

Isabela's eyes narrowed. "Why?" she asked, suspiciously. "You do know you'll have to board the ship at the docks, after all."

Shepard didn't meet her eyes. Staring down at the bar top, she muttered. "The Arishok and I had a… misunderstanding."

Isabela's lips stretched in a grin. "What kind of misunderstanding?" she asked delightedly.

Shepard scowled and glanced up at her briefly. "The kind where I break my hand on his jaw."

The pirate's elegant brows arched. "That's some misunderstanding all right," she said. She thrust her lower lip out in thought for a moment.

"I'll tell you what," she murmured. "I'll go down to the docks and secure your passage to Cumberland on one condition."

"Actually, it would be for three people," Shepard told her with a hint of sheepishness. "I'm brining Sebastian and Anders with me."

"Sebastian and Anders? Well, then, I definitely want my condition met," said the pirate slyly.

"What's the condition?" Shepard asked warily.

"A kiss," said Isabela promptly. "From you, to me. On the lips."

"What is it about this place?" Shepard grumbled, "That everyone wants to kiss me?"

"You're delectable, sweet thing," Isabela answered, rising from her stool and moving closer to her, amber eyes intent. She slid her forearm along the bar and leaned back against it, bringing her impressive cleavage into play. "So tell me, which one kissed you? Anders, or Sebastian?"

Shepard forced herself to relax as the pirate's guess went wide of the mark. "Come on, Isabela. You know I can't answer that."

"Why not?"

"Isabela!"

The pirate huffed. "Well, are you at least going to take me up on my offer?"

Shepard thought quickly. She had no desire to lead Isabela on, but she also had no desire to encounter the Arishok.

"One kiss," she clarified, "no promises?"

"None," agreed the pirate.

Shepard nodded, and before she could lose her nerve, leaned forward and quickly pressed her lips to Isabela's.

In a flash, Isabela's free hand was at Shepard's neck, keeping her in place, while the pirate's mouth moved seductively against her own.

Through Shepard's anger and embarrassment, a thought bubbled to the surface.

_Damn, she's good at this_.

When Isabela finally released her, Shepard drew back and gave the pirate a hard stare. "That was cheating."

Isabela laughed musically. "I _always_ cheat, sweetness. You should know that by now."

"You'd better be sure it's a _really nice_ boat."

"Ship."

"Whatever."

**-ooo-**

Shepard had only ever been on the ocean once in her life, and that had been during her time at The Villa, where throwing up was a frequent occurrence. N-school was meant to test a soldier's limits and more - to push them beyond their limits again and again, and exceeding physical limits is something the human stomach frowns upon.

So, given that she'd been in a state of near puking, puking, or just having puked for quite a lot of her N7 training, Shepard had no idea that it wasn't _just_ exceeding her physical limits that her stomach frowned upon.

Shepard was seasick.

It's a humbling thought that no matter how strong a person is, they can be brought low by a rebellious stomach. Shepard had unflinchingly faced countless enemies, mind-boggling dangers, and insurmountable odds. She'd died and come back to life. She liked to consider herself a woman with exceptional will.

But the sea had broken stronger than Shepard before, and would do so again.

She heaved, despite the fact there was nothing left to heave.

"Please, Anders," she begged hoarsely. "Isn't there anything you can do?"

"I'm doing everything I can," he said softly, gently brushing her hair back from her forehead. "I'm afraid I can't control seasickness."

To make it worse, her two male companions appeared completely unaffected. Sebastian looked fresh as a daisy, having come down to their cabin from the deck above. Anders continued to eat as voraciously as ever, appetite driven by the gift and curse of the Wardens, though out of sympathy for Shepard, he at least did so out of her sight and the range of her nostrils.

According to the sailors, it wasn't as if it was even a rough voyage. The winds were steady, but not high, and the sea calm by their standards. There was a bit of chop, but nothing like the Waking Sea could provide in midwinter.

Shepard felt weak, and not just physically.

She tried to thump her fist against the deck planks beneath her head, but the action was less a gesture of frustration and defiance and more a struggle with gravity.

_I'd kiss the Arishok again if only it meant I could have injectable sedatives…_

There was a light tap on the door of the cabin. Sebastian levered himself out of his hammock and opened it.

There was a short, fat woman on the opposite side. Both Sebastian and Anders had seen her before - she was the ship's cook and the captain's "wife", though neither wore a ring.

Now she stood in the doorway, holding a covered bowl. Steam escaped from the lid in tiny fragrant wisps. She craned her neck to see around Sebastian's bulk and into the cabin.

"Is herself still feeling poorly?" she asked.

"I'm afraid so," Sebastian answered. If she'd have had the energy, Shepard would have attempted some false bravado and insisted she felt fine. Though the way things had been going, her stomach would have proved the lie before she managed to finish the sentence.

"I've brung a bit of an old sailor's remedy," the woman said, gesturing with the bowl.

Anders frowned. "I've tried all the anti-emetics I know," he told the woman. "None of them have helped."

The woman chuckled. "You ain't an old sailor." Gently, she pushed past Sebastian and made for the pathetic heap of uselessness that Shepard had become.

"Here, gel," she said, hunkering down beside Shepard and setting the bowl beside her. "Up you sit."

With surprising strength, the woman hauled Shepard upright, holding her steady with one arm while she uncovered the bowl with the other hand. "Drink this."

Shepard feebly tried to wave it away. "It'll just come up again," she groaned.

The woman ignored Shepard's protests and brought the bowl closer. "Come now," she said briskly. "Have a sup."

"No, please," Shepard whined. "Really, it'll make me sick. _Sicker_."

Ruthlessly, the woman dodged all of Shepard's weak attempts to intercept the bowl and held it to the Spectre's pallid lips. "Have some faith in ol' Sylvie," she said sternly. "One mouthful shan't kill you."

Unable to fight back, Shepard acquiesced. "If I throw up on you it's your own fault," she warned, and allowed herself to take one tiny sip from the bowl, which had a smell that reminded Shepard of the little Cantonese place in Vancouver near Alliance HQ.

The dark brown broth was sweet and faintly spicy. To Shepard's surprise, the simple act of swallowing the tiny mouthful did not trigger an immediate and violent response from her stomach. At Sylvie's urging, she took a second, slightly larger sip, and then the bowl was pulled away.

"What is this?" Shepard managed to ask, all the while waiting for the inevitable spasms to start up again.

"Told you," said Sylvie simply. "Old sailor's remedy." The woman watched Shepard closely, her expression that of someone calculating numbers in their head.

She proffered the bowl again. "Sup again, gel."

Again, Shepard was given two small sips of the broth before Sylvie removed the bowl. And again Sylvie watched and waited before offering the bowl again.

This time, Shepard managed a single sip before she felt her muscles tense. Sylvie quickly set the bowl down and pressed her callus-roughened thumb against Shepard's upper lip, just under her nose. The woman's hands were strong, and the pressure was just on the painful side. Shepard took a sudden breath and tried to pull away, but the arm Sylvie still had around her shoulders prevented her from going anywhere. After a moment, Sylvie gradually relaxed her thumb, and then removed it all together.

She picked up the bowl again, as if nothing had happened, and raised it to Shepard's lips again. "Try again."

The spasm of nausea had passed, so Shepard did as she was told.

Mouthful by mouthful, Sylvie poured her old sailor's remedy into Shepard, and Shepard kept it down. When the bowl was finally emptied, the old woman gave Shepard an appraising look and said, "There now, gel. Get some sleep if you can."

Sebastian politely opened the door for her and thanked her on her way out, and then turned his attention to Shepard.

"Feel any better?" he asked hopefully.

"I'm not currently painting the walls, so I guess that would be a yes," Shepard said weakly.

Anders brought her a couple of folded blankets, shaking out one and draping it around her shoulders. He gestured vaguely with the other. "She was right, you know," he told Shepard. "Sleep would probably make you feel a bit better, if you can manage it."

Shepard nodded wearily and accepted the second blanket as a pillow. "How many days do we have left?" she asked plaintively.

"The better part of a day and a half, still," answered Sebastian.

Shepard was quiet for a long time. Then, on the edge of sleep, she murmured,

"I think I liked the Deep Roads better."

* * *

_A/N: _

_Okay, apologies for another chapter cut short (and a bit rough around the edges). But I'm getting ready to start NaNoWriMo, and that means two things - one, I'm not going to be posting as often (I don't think), and two, I took several days off from writing entirely this past week. I'd rather get out a short chapter than nothing at all. I hope y'all agree.  
_

_For those of the notice-y persuasion, yep, that's me taking liberties with Eastern medicine in the last bit. For anyone who is curious, the broth is ginger soup, which is lovely for colds (as is Hot and Sour soup). I've never tried it for nausea or motion sickness, but I'm going off the premise that ginger pills are supposed to be somewhat effective for these maladies. And, of course, ginger ale is supposed to settle an upset stomach. The pressure point Sylvie uses on Shepard is GV-26, which I pretty much only know is supposed to cause a bit of a response from the adrenal glands and can help if a person is feeling faint or has fainted. But I think I remember hearing that it also is a control point for the stomach, so I decided that I'd just co-opt it for my purposes._

_Fanfic = making shit up to suit my whim. Hey, after science, science and more science, I deserve to be able to cut loose and invent some facts for a change._


	31. Chapter 30

**Chapter Thirty**

"Serah Hawke," rumbled the Arishok, lounging on his throne-like bench. His chin rested against his closed fist, his bent elbow set against one knee. Though his posture was relaxed, his piercing yellow eyes regarded her with their usual intensity.

Hawke bent her head slightly. "Arishok," she replied politely.

She, Varric and Fenris had just dispatched a large, well-armed and tough (but not overly intelligent) group of would-be assassins in the Hightown plaza just outside Hawke's estate. The assassins had been lurking inside the deep embrasures to either side of the grand stairway to the Viscount's Keep, with a solitary lookout watching for their target - not a bad plan at all, for _midnight_. For midafternoon… Hawke couldn't decide if they were just that confident, or just that stupid.

The mage they were after had taken one look at the men rushing down the stairs, screamed like a little girl, and bolted like a hare.

Once the assassins were dead and Hawke had assured herself that Fenris, Varric, and the two guards who had appeared at the first sound of trouble were all relatively uninjured, she fell to thoroughly searching the corpses' pockets for, as she had put it to the guard, _incriminating evidence_. As she rolled the final body onto its back, a solitary qunari soldier had approached her and indicated, in typical qunari fashion, that the Arishok was extending an invitation to the dockside compound.

"Basra. You will come with me. Now."

And so here she stood with her eyebrows raised, waiting for the leader of the giants to tell her what new catastrophe was about to be unleashed on an unsuspecting Kirkwall.

The Arishok shifted slightly, lifting his head from his hand. "Your…companion, Serah Hawke. She no longer appears to be in this city."

Hawke blinked in surprise. "What?"

"Shepard," repeated the Arishok, and it seemed to Hawke that there was an undercurrent of some emotion when he said the name, "is no longer in this city."

"Yes?" she ventured, puzzled by the Arishok's line of non-questioning.

"Where is she?" he snapped, leaning forward. There was no question what the emotion was this time. Frustration.

"Shepard left for Cumberland two days ago," Hawke said slowly. "There are some ruins there that she wanted to investigate."

"She did not inform me of this," the Arishok growled, shifting again.

Hawke traded glances with Varric and Fenris. It was a statement that cried out for a firm answer - but was not going to get one. Instead, Hawke plumped for diplomacy.

"She expects to return in a few weeks."

The yellow gaze darkened, and the Arishok muttered something under his breath. He rose fluidly, turned as if to leave, and paused. "Panahedan, Hawke," he said stiffly, over one shoulder. "I thank you for this information."

"What was that all about?" Varric muttered quietly, as the giant stalked off into the compound.

Hawke's eyes followed the Arishok's back. "I have no idea," she said. "Fenris?"

The elf cleared his throat softly. "Why I am beginning to suspect that there is more to Shepard's trip than a desire to look at ruins…?"

**-ooo-**

Shepard had expected Cumberland to be similar to Kirkwall, if less brooding. She was surprised, therefore, to find that it was nothing of the sort. Cumberland had long ago spilled outside its outer walls, sprawling over the neighboring fields to either side. To the north and east the city was eventually reined in by the Imperial Highway, but to the west and southwest there was nothing until one reached the outer limits of Val Chevin, and the Chevin River. It was a prosperous city, bustling with commerce, with wide paved avenues lined with stately trees, and large market plazas with beautiful fountains and sculptures.

Kirkwall, in comparison, was a third-world shantytown that would only be improved by the application of a large firebomb. Shepard voiced this opinion aloud.

"Burn Kirkwall?" Sebastian frowned. "Why would you even consider such an idea?"

"Yes," agreed Anders solemnly. "The whole bloody city's built of stone. You'd have to be daft to think it would burn."

Sebastian glared at the mage angrily. "Cumberland is guilty of the same sins as Kirkwall," he told Shepard. "The same corruptions, the same crimes. The same divide between rich and poor. It simply hides it better."

Shepard sighed. "I suppose that's civilization for you."

"Truer words were never spoken," said Anders.

Sebastian looked troubled, but did not argue the point.

"I suggest we gather what supplies we will need for our journey before the markets close this evening," he said, as the three of them weaved their way through the crowds. "There's an inn I know of near the eastern edge of the city where we can rent a room for the night and start fresh in the morning." His eyes lingered on Shepard for a moment. "Or perhaps the day after."

"I'm fine," Shepard told him with a shake of her head. "Now that I'm standing on something that isn't constantly rolling around."

Anders rolled his eyes at her. "Shepard, you haven't had a solid meal in three days. And not a whole lot of sleep that wasn't magically induced."

As if to prove his point, Shepard's stomach chose that moment to growl loudly. "So?" she said. "A good meal tonight, and the chance to sleep in a real bed, and I'll be good to go."

"Shepard, you need the rest," the healer protested.

"Haven't you heard the saying, _you can rest when you're dead_?"

Anders snorted. "The way you act, I'm surprised you aren't."

Shepard shrugged. "Only because I'm a spectacular failure at it."

Sebastian's brows dipped downward in confusion. "At what?"

"Being dead."

The prince of Starkhaven gave her a long, thoughtful look, and shook his head. "Shepard, you may well be the oddest woman I've ever met."

Shepard rubbed her hands together briskly. "Good to know I'm expanding your horizons. Now," she lifted an eyebrow, "shall we get started?"

**-ooo-**

"What is the world coming to?" Varric complained. "Assassins in the Hanged Man?"

Hawke gave him an amused tilt of her head. "There were two assassins in here just the other week, Varric. You were telling them one of your tall tales."

"That's different," the dwarf protested. "_They_ were just here for the ale."

This was the third group of assassins Hawke and her fellows had dispatched today. After the group in Hightown, and their subsequent detour to the qunari compound in the docks, Varric had asked to drop by Shepard's apartment in the alienage to check on a shipment of materials the plumbers had delivered earlier. As he, Hawke and Fenris had begun their descent into the alienage courtyard, they heard yet another shrill yelp and a young elf in robes ran past at appreciable speed. He was followed by a small but very highly skilled group of assassins.

Not skilled _enough_, however.

While Hawke was performing her customary looting of the bodies, Varric slipped down into the alienage, where he was accosted by Merrill.

"If that wasn't the most unusual thing," Merrill told him. "I was just standing here talking to this boy I met when he suddenly screamed and ran off. Then these men came out of that building over there, and ran off after him." She turned puzzled eyes to the stairwell.

"They were assassins, I'm afraid, Daisy," Varric responded.

"Assassins?" Merrill's wide eyes grew wider. "He seemed so…_sweet!_ And sort of shy, too. He reminded me a little of Pol," she added wistfully.

Varric shook his head. "No, Daisy. The mage wasn't _with_ the assassins. He was the _target_."

"By the Dread Wolf!" One hand flew to her mouth. "Did they… did you…"

The dwarf gave her a reassuring smile. "Don't worry, Daisy. He got away. The assassins, however…"

"Ooh," said the elf, "Hawke was with you."

"You don't think I'm capable of taking out assassins on my own?" Varric demanded, but his eyes were twinkling. "I'm hurt."

"That's not… I didn't mean…" Merrill floundered. "It's just that Hawke, is, well… Hawke," she explained, unnecessarily.

Followed by, "Wait, he was a mage?"

"The long robes and the staff didn't give it away?" Varric asked, tipping his head.

Merrill blushed a rosy pink under her tattoos. "I… I didn't notice what he was wearing," she admitted in a near whisper. Her gaze turned soft and dreamy. "He had such pretty eyes."

"Why, _Daisy…_" Varric began, but the elf was already hurrying away.

"I… have to… I left something on the… I really have to go now," she stammered as she fled back to her apartment.

Varric watched her go with a chuckle, and shook his head, turning into Shepard's building and the task at hand.

Shortly after, Fenris had left them at the door to the Hanged Man, citing important business elsewhere.

"He owes Rivaini two sovereigns," Varric said in an aside as Hawke watched the elven warrior stalk off in the direction of Hightown.

Hawke grinned. "I recall. Isabela's luck has improved recently. I think she must be finally paying attention to her cards now that Shepard's breasts aren't here to distract her."

"That and the fact that she cheats outrageously when those sharp eyes aren't here to watch her dealing," the dwarf chuckled. "Starkiller's got a very intimidating scowl, you know."

The pair of them crossed the common room, throwing a wave and a nod in the direction of Isabela's usual spot at the bar, and climbed the steps toward Varric's suite, still chatting amiably.

From the end of the corridor came a cry that Dopplered toward them, and was nearly overtaken by its originator.

"Wai…" Hawke attempted, but the mage was already leaping down the steps.

She sighed and reached for her daggers.

This group was neither well armed, highly skilled, or particularly bright. Nor were there, in truth, that many of them. But despite the ease with which he and Hawke dispatched them, Varric's face still bore an affronted expression as he sprawled in his favorite chair and waited for Edwina to arrive with their pitcher of ale.

"There goes the neighborhood," quipped Hawke.

"Templars, assassins… what's next?" groused the dwarf. "Qunari?"

"Don't say it," Hawke warned. "Shepard's not around to distract _them_, either." She raised an eyebrow. "Unless you _want_ the Arishok as your new drinking buddy."

Varric shuddered theatrically. "I dread to think what might happen if he got as handsy as you and Rivaini."

"The Arishok? Handsy?" scoffed Hawke. "But I bet he'd undress you with his eyes," she leered.

The dwarf raised both hands and shut his eyes tightly. "Stop right there, Hawke."

Edwina came in with a pitcher and tankards, and left again. Grinning, Hawke filled the mugs and handed one to her trusty dwarf as he added, "There are some things my imagination shouldn't be privy to. And that is one of them."

"It's your own fault for being so damned irresistible, Varric," Hawke pointed out.

Varric sighed tragically. "We can't help the way we're made, Hawke," he said, laying a hand against his heart. "It's a curse that I must bear."

"You?!" Hawke retorted incredulously. "What about _me_?!"

"What about you, Hawke?" Varric asked lazily, the corner of his mouth quirking upward as he sipped his ale.

"_I'm_ the one that has to bear your curse, dwarf."

"Now, Hawke, don't get jealous," Varric soothed. "You're not so bad yourself."

"Was that supposed to be a compliment?" Hawke demanded.

"You know you're irresistible, Hawke," Varric said. "You don't need me telling you."

Hawke made an unladylike sound. "All I _am_ is resistible. You, Sebastian, Anders, Fenris…"

"Broody?" Varric's eyes narrowed. "I sense a story you haven't shared, Hawke."

The rogue shook her head. "Don't change the subject, Varric. For someone so irresistible, my male friends certainly seem to have no problem saying no to me."

She frowned. "Unless it involves running around trying to kill something while simultaneously avoiding being killed themselves. Obviously, the prospect of death is more attractive than the prospect of me naked."

"Is that an offer?"

"An offer for what?" Hawke asked with exasperation.

Varric cocked an eyebrow. "To take off your clothes."

"To… _what_?!"

Slowly, the dwarf nodded. "See? That's what I thought. Bluffing. _Always_ with the bluffing."

**-ooo-**

"Are you sure you don't want to stay another night?" Anders asked.

Shepard shook her head. "I'm fine, really," she assured the healer.

"You don't look fine," Anders insisted. "Your face looks gaunt, and there are hollows under your eyes."

Shepard raised a dark eyebrow at him.

"Anders is right," rumbled Sebastian in his brogue. "You don't look well."

Shepard put her hands on her hips and glared at them both. "Well. You two certainly know how to insult a girl, don't you?"

Anders sighed. "You're a beautiful woman, Shepard. Just one who looks like she could use a few days' rest."

"I concur," added Sebastian with a hint of a smile. "As lovely as you are, I should hate to see you fall ill, my lady."

There was a clang as Shepard's armored fist smacked against the prince's white-enameled breastplate. "That was for calling me a _lady_," she mock growled. "And you," she thrust a finger at Anders. "Next time you attempt to humor me, try to be a little convincing."

Shepard rolled her shoulders in a familiar gesture. "Both of you shut up and fall in. We're moving out, _now_."

**-ooo-**

For a long, long moment, Hawke just stared at Varric. Then, quietly, she got to her feet and walked over to the door, which she closed and locked. When she turned away from it, her face bore an expression Varric had rarely seen on it.

_Fear._

"Hawke?" Varric asked, uneasily.

Hawke shook her head mutely.

She took a couple of steps into the room, and peeled off one gauntlet. Its mate soon followed, and the rogue threw the pair onto the table.

She toed off one boot, and then the other.

"Hawke…" Varric began, but the rogue's bare fingers were already working nimbly at the fastenings to her vambraces.

She set the vambraces on the table as well, and bent over to remove her greaves.

Varric tried again. "Hawke, you don't have to…"

"Don't," she interrupted him, in a low voice.

For a wonder, the dwarf shut up. Partly because, for once, he wasn't sure what to say. This was _Hawke_, slayer of demons and darkspawn and dragons, and she was taking off her armor in front of him. Not to treat an injury to herself, not to repair damage to the armor, but purely and simply to _get naked_.

His heart began to pound in his chest like it was trying to escape the confines of his ribcage.

The greaves went beside the vambraces and gauntlets.

She hadn't taken her eyes off of him. Maker, what was she _doing_?

Varric suddenly wished he hadn't called her bluff.

Those strong, dexterous little fingers had moved on to the buckles at her side. _Maker, _he thought, dragging his mind away from its sudden speculations about how those fingers would feel on various parts of his anatomy.

_This is Hawke_, he reminded himself. Hawke_. Your friend, and quite possibly a better one than you deserve_.

But the buckles all hung loose, and she'd moved on to the other fastenings, bit by bit exposing creamy skin…

Suddenly, Varric was finding it difficult to breathe.

His eyes couldn't help following the column of her throat to the exposed hollow, and from there along the path her hands had taken, down the valley between her breasts, over the flat plane of her stomach, to the dimple of her navel and at last the waist of her leather leggings.

Maker, _he shouldn't be watching this_.

Varric tried to close his eyes, but his traitorous mind simply provided its own images as he heard the sound of leather hitting the floor.

He opened them again to find Hawke passing her tongue over her lips nervously. He swallowed. Hard.

Varric had seen her without a shirt before, of course. When you spent as much time as the two of them did getting hacked at with sharp objects and shot at with pointy projectiles, you got used to seeing each other in various stages of undress for the purposes of treating wounds. But this was different.

So, _so_ different.

Hawke's fingers were unlacing her leggings now, and _Maker help him_, he didn't want her to stop.

Skin, so much skin, soft and pale, and those limbs, long and lean and so like and unlike a dwarf's…

Hawke was down to her smalls now, and when she reached behind her to free her breasts from their binding, he bit back a groan.

"_Maker_, Hawke," he said in a strangled voice, "you win. Whatever game we were playing, _you win_."

The rogue took a step toward him, and another, and Varric could see her throat move as she swallowed. "Does that mean I get a prize?" she asked, her voice so low he could barely hear it.

_Hawke_, he reminded himself firmly. _Hawke, Hawke, HawkeHawkeHawke_.

This was not an argument that carried any weight with his cock, which was straining against his suddenly very restrictive clothing.

Her knee grazed his.

Andraste's ass, she was going to _break_ him. Maybe that was her point.

"I…don't…know," he managed thickly. "Perhaps a ribbon for your hair?" He'd been to a human fair once, and seen humans playing a shell game for colorful silk ribbons. That seemed innocuous enough.

Hawke threw a leg over his, so that she now stood straddling him. Given their respective positions, this meant that he was staring her straight in the nipples.

Nipples that pebbled ever-so-slightly as his breath passed over them.

_Oh, Maker…_

She leaned forward slightly so that she could look him in the eye. "Varric," she said, and by the ancestors her voice was so husky it was like suede brushing against his eardrums, "do I look like the kind of girl who would like a ribbon for my hair?"

"For your daggers, then?"

It was hard to think, hard to breathe, hard to, well, keep himself from getting even harder.

"Try again," she said, settling herself on his thighs.

"A permanent spot on my tab downstairs?" he offered. She _was_ going to break him. His fingers itched to touch her skin, to see for themselves whether it was just as soft as it looked…

Very deliberately, Hawke placed first one hand and then the other against the chair on either side of his head.

"Tempting," she said. "But I think you can do better."

_Better?_ he thought. Sweet Andraste, at this point he'd offer her everything she wanted if she'd only get up off his lap before he did something they'd both regret. He said so.

"Hawke, you're nearly naked and in my lap. Name your price, but do it quickly before my libido catches up with current events."

"Why?" she breathed, blinking at him in wide-eyed innocence. "What happens then?"

"Andraste's ass, Hawke, _please_. In a minute I'm going to lose control of my better judgment, and I really don't want you to hit me."

"Varric," Hawke chided. "I'd _never_ hit my trusty dwarf." Her bright green eyes were mischievous. "Unless he deserved it."

Too late. It was too late. His hands were running up her thighs, over the curve of her hips, and if there was one thing Varric was sure of, it was that by the time Hawke hauled off and decked him one, he'd deserve it. _Really, really _deserve it.

* * *

_A/N:_

_Short again, and again with the apologies. NaNoWriMo is going slowly, and I'd rather not leave y'all hanging for a whole month while I wrestle with it. _

_So instead, I leave you with a dirty cliffhanger. In more ways than one._


	32. Chapter 31

_A/N: This is an entire chapter devoted to smut. If you no likee the smut, you may skip without missing important plot nonesense._

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-One**

Hawke's heart was hammering in her chest. _Why_ was she doing this?

Because Varric had as much as issued a challenge, that's why.

All right, but then why was she so damned _scared_? It wasn't as if Varric hadn't seen her undressed before. She remembered getting caught by a bandit's blade once and being sliced from hip to shoulder across her back. Anders wasn't with them - it was just her and Isabela and Varric - and she'd spent nearly an hour topless while the other two rogues tried to stop the bleeding with poultices and makeshift bandages. Varric had even given up his shirt afterward, so that she could have something to wear that wouldn't rub against the wound while they trekked back to Anders' clinic.

So why did she feel like screaming and running away like a skinny little elven mage?

"Hawke, you don't have to…" Varric began, clearly bent on offering her a way out.

"Don't," she told him. _Because if you do, I might well take it. And then you'll be smug for weeks for having called my bluff_.

She kept her eyes on him as she worked, daring him to comment further.

He didn't. But his expression became strained as his eyes followed her hands as they unfastened her leather armor, and he finally closed his eyes altogether as she peeled the leather off and let it drop to the floor.

Maker. Was she really that disgusting to him that he couldn't even bring himself to look_?_

Hawke licked her lips nervously and paused, marshaling her courage to continue. Andraste's tits, he _asked_ for this_. We'll see if he dares to call my bluff _ever again.

Varric's eyes were open again and his expression was even more strained, if that was possible. He looked almost… _horrified_, but his eyes were glued to her hands as she began to unlace her leggings, and his breath kept catching in his throat.

She wiggled her way out of them, hoping she didn't look as ludicrous as she felt.

Varric's eyes roved over her as she stood before him in her smalls. Trying to keep her hands from trembling, she reached behind her to unfasten her breast binding.

The dwarf made a small choking sound, and said, his voice even more strained than his expression, "_Maker_, Hawke, you win. Whatever game we were playing, _you win_."

Bolstered slightly by Varric's words, she moved toward him, swallowing back her lingering fear. "Does that mean I get a prize?" She'd intended for it to be an arch statement, but uncertainty robbed her voice of all power and it came out just above a whisper.

She stopped when her knee touched his.

"I…don't…know," said Varric. He appeared to be having trouble with his tongue. "Perhaps a ribbon for your hair?" This close, she could see that, whatever his lips or his expression said, his eyes said something different. There was heat in his gaze, shuttered slightly, but still there for her to see.

Maker… could this mean he was actually _attracted_ to her?

Hawke decided to test this theory. She threw one leg over both of his, capturing him in his chair and, not so coincidentally, bringing her bare breasts not a foot from his face. She felt her nipples harden slightly as his warm breath gusted over them.

She leaned down, breaking his eye contact with the girls and making him look her in the eye. "Varric," she said, and Maker if she didn't catch the husky note of want in her voice, "do I look like the kind of girl that would like a ribbon for her hair?"

"For your daggers, then?" he suggested, and it was just such a _Varric_ comment that the last of her fear fled.

She settled herself on his lap. "Try again."

"A permanent spot on my tab downstairs?" There was a hint of pleading in his voice, but his eyes… oh, those eyes.

She placed her hands on either side of his head. "Tempting," she told him, bringing her face close and letting her breath brush his cheek. "But I think you can do better."

"Hawke, you're nearly naked and in my lap," Varric said plaintively. "Name your price, but do it quickly before my libido catches up with current events."

Name her price? Before his libido catches up with current events? She'd never seen her trusty dwarf so… _flustered_.

She schooled her expression to one of puzzled innocence. "Why?" she purred. "What happens then?"

"Andraste's ass, Hawke, _please,_" the dwarf begged. "In a minute I'm going to lose control of my better judgment, and I really don't want you to hit me."

Hawke tried to repress a shiver at his words. _Maker_, he knew how to turn a girl on. Even if he wasn't intending to.

"Varric, I'd _never_ hit my trusty dwarf." She gave him a wicked glance. "Unless he _deserved_ it."

Something broke inside of him, Hawke could see it in his expression. She felt his hands against her thighs, caressing up and over her hips, urging her closer. Hawke accommodated him, shifting herself deeper into his lap, noticing for the first time just how much heat was coming from the junction of his thighs. Clearly, his libido was well abreast of current events, and approved.

Those broad hands dropped down to the curve of her ass, squeezing appreciatively, before sliding up over her ribs to cup the weight of her breasts. One callused thumb brushed over her nipple and she gasped, catching her lower lip in her teeth to keep from crying out.

The sound seemed to draw a groan from the dwarf, and he dropped his head forward to bury his face between her breasts.

"Varric," she breathed, as his stubble prickled against her sensitive skin.

"Hmm?" he replied, nuzzling deeper.

"Varric," she repeated.

The dwarf lifted his face from its pleasant nest. "Is this when you hit me?"

"No," she said. "It's not." And she took his face in her hands and kissed him.

**-ooo-**

Hawke was _kissing_ him.

She was drunk. She must be. Except… she'd hardly _touched_ her ale before all this began.

But why else would she be… _Maker!_

Hawke's sharp little teeth nipped at his bottom lip, followed by the flick of her tongue, impatiently urging him to allow her to deepen the kiss. Her fingers wove their way into his hair.

Something _had_ to be affecting her. The only time she _ever_ expressed this kind of interest in him was when she was very, very drunk, and Varric knew better than to read anything into a drunk woman plastering herself to him.

Or was she simply upping the ante?

His mouth gave up on his brain and took matters upon itself, opening eagerly to Hawke's tongue, enthusiastically returning her kiss.

Hawke was a flirt. A tease. She was all talk. She couldn't really be interested in _bedding_ him, could she?

Her tongue sparred with his, and she made tiny little sounds deep in her throat that went straight to the fire in his gut.

_Andraste's tits, _who knew Hawke could kiss like this?

Well, besides Rivaini. And possibly Jethann and a handful of other whores down at the Rose. And maybe a few other lucky, _lucky_ men…

His hands, aware that they might not have much time left if his brain kept insisting on _thinking_, roamed over her skin, delighting in the softness of it.

Her breasts were _exceptional_ - the perfect balance of firm yet soft, and seemingly made to fit his hands. Her shoulders were muscular and lean, like the rest of her, her collarbones delicate. Her neck was graceful and strong. Her hair was like silk, and despite today's fighting it smelled faintly sweet as it tumbled in a curtain around their faces.

Maker's breath, if there was a special place in the Void for people who took advantage of their closest friends, he was going there. In a handbasket.

"Hawke," he managed to murmur around her lips, "is this… are you sure…?"

Hawke trailed her mouth along his jaw and nipped at his earlobe. "Varric?" she murmured as she nibbled. "Shut up and keep kissing me."

**-ooo-**

Oh, Maker, his hands were all over her now, and it was as if every dirty thought she'd ever had while watching him polish Bianca's stock was being played out.

Well, _almost_ every dirty thought…

Varric's lips brushed over her throat to her collarbone, his stubble rasping against her skin. Hawke let her head fall to one side to give him better access, but instead his broad hands splayed against her back, holding her firmly as he leaned forward and bent her backwards, allowing his mouth full access to her breasts. His lips trailed over the swell of one to a coral nipple, which he laved delicately with his tongue before suckling it gently.

Hawke gave a soft little moan of pleasure. Why hadn't he ever shown this kind of interest before? Maker knew she'd practically dry humped him in one of her fits of drunken poor judgement, and all he'd done was capture her inappropriate hands, gather her up, and dump her in his bed - alone.

The moan turned to a sharp cry as he brought his teeth down on the pebble of flesh, just to the threshold of pain.

Suddenly, she couldn't stand the fact that there were layers of clothing between her and his skin. Hawke slid both hands under his leather coat, pushing it up and off his shoulders, where it stuck.

She growled with annoyance and impatience, struggling with the heavy material.

Varric chuckled in her ear, and slid his hands down over her ass again, swatting her playfully. "If you'll let me up, I can help you with that," he said with amusement.

Reluctantly, Hawke eased herself away from the dwarf, who stood and casually shrugged the coat from his wide shoulders, draping it over the back of the chair neatly.

Hawke didn't give him a moment to change his mind. As he turned back in her direction, Hawke's hands fisted in his shirt and she hauled him around bodily, pressing herself against him and backing him slowly in the direction of the bed. Her mouth captured his again, demanding his attention, and her hands slipped from his shirt down to the wide sash belt at his waist, fingers picking deftly at the knot.

**-ooo-**

Hawke hit him with full frontal womanhood, pushing him in the direction of his bed.

This had ceased to be a game to him, and Varric desperately hoped that Hawke wasn't enacting some dreadful revenge for some long-forgotten slight. He'd never seriously entertained the idea of bedding Hawke, but damned if he wasn't only entertaining it, but throwing it a grand Orlesian-style ball with sparkling wine and interesting canapes.

How had he missed the fact that he wanted her?

She pulled the sash from his waist and let it drop, her hands immediately scrabbling for the hem of his shirt, tugging it up over his broad chest. Varric raised his arms - from Hawke's look of determination, it was either that or he'd be replacing a shirt tomorrow.

The sight of his bared torso seemed to soften the edge of Hawke's impatience, and she ran her hands along the heavy muscles of his arms and shoulders, nuzzling her nose against his neck and nibbling at his collarbone.

The back of Varric's calves hit the edge of the bed, bringing him up short.

Hawke's hands slid from his shoulders to the plane of his chest, and she shoved gently, toppling him onto the mattress. For half a moment, she stared down at him, eyes darkened with desire and her swollen lips parted hungrily.

_Maker help me… if she walks away now, I might well cry._

Like some kind of lithe jungle beast she stalked forward, hands, then knees upon the bed on either side of him, and stopped, straddling his waist. He groaned as her weight sank down against him, trapping his erection firmly between them. He could feel her delicious heat through the cloth of her smalls.

"_Hawke_…"

"Yes, Varric?" she murmured, leaning forward to place open-mouthed kisses over his chest, grinding her hips against him the tiniest bit as she did so.

"I…"

Hawke trapped a nipple between her teeth and flicked her tongue over it.

"Uh…"

She began to slide backward off of him, her hands trailing down his flanks and coming together at the fastening of his trousers, working them loose. Hawke slid the tips of her fingers back along the waistband, easing between flesh and fabric and coaxing the waistband over his hips.

"Oh."

Trousers were no challenge to fingers that had once divested the Chairman of the Merchant's Guild of his coinpurse, but boots… boots were a different matter. Hawke had no sooner begun tugging the waistband down over his knees than she realized her mistake.

When removing pants, it is generally a good idea to first remove boots.

Still, Hawke did her best. She ran her hand down Varric's leg, over the cuff of the sturdy footwear, and grasped his ankle. Her other hand joined the first, and together they attempted the near-impossible feat of seductively removing an armored dwarven boot.

Make that a _stubborn_ armored dwarven boot.

As Varric's foot finally came free with an almost audible pop, Hawke overbalanced and fell backwards onto her ass with a little huff, the boot narrowly missing her forehead.

_Well, _that_ was a mood-killer…_

In the moment of stillness that followed, Varric selfishly prayed that whatever crazy impulse Hawke was indulging wouldn't evaporate like Corff's strongest whiskey at room temperature.

He raised himself up on his elbows and opened his mouth to ask if Hawke was okay, when the rouge rolled on her hip and attacked his other boot like a determined mabari puppy, wrenching it off and tossing it over her shoulder. His trousers followed, landing half on and half off the table, and his smalls, which caught on the corner of a chair.

**-ooo-**

Although Jethann had helped Hawke gain a considerable appreciation for the charms of other races, she had yet to bed a dwarf. Sitting on her heels at Varric's feet, Hawke was treated to her first lesson in dwarven anatomy, namely, that _height_ and _length_ are not proportional. _Girth_, on the other hand, was.

Dwarven ladies may not know it, but they were lucky little bitches.

Hawke ran her palms up Varric's legs, shifting his knees apart so that she was positioned between them. Her hands continued their slow slide, thumbs stroking along his inner thighs, until they reached his cock, which twitched in anticipation.

Part of Hawke wanted nothing more than to mount Varric right then and there, and foreplay be damned. But pride and a genuine desire to please her friend checked her impatience, and she leaned her chest against the edge of the bed, letting her breath ghost over his sensitive flesh before taking him in hand and mouth.

As Varric moaned in appreciation, turning her insides to liquid heat, Hawke was glad she had.

**-ooo-**

Varric's hands clutched at the bedclothes as Hawke's lips closed around him, her tongue doing something fabulous to the head of his penis. Maker, it was sinful how _good_ her mouth felt on him. He wondered briefly if, for the rest of his life, he'd feel awkward or turned on knowing the depth of Hawke's talents.

He couldn't help his short cry when she brought him deeper into her mouth, her tongue swirling along his shaft and her thumb massaging his balls. He resisted the urge to buck his hips as she began a rhythm of suckling and swirling and pumping, his muscles twitching and trembling with the effort of control.

Why hadn't any of Rivaini's friend fiction mentioned Hawke's utter _mastery_ of the art of giving head?

**-ooo-**

By the raggedness of his breathing and the tension in his muscles, Hawke knew that Varric was close. She considered taking him right to the edge and stopping him - if dwarves were anything like humans and elves, aborting his climax at the last second would make the experience even more powerful when he did come. But the incredible little sounds he was making were so hot she couldn't help wanting to milk every last drop of pleasure from the experience. Literally.

So when he touched her hair with one hand and said her name on a wavering breath, her lips simply curved slightly and she increased her tempo and intensity until he gave a hoarse shout and spasmed against her. She sucked and swallowed greedily as his warmth spilled into her mouth, his stocky frame jerking with sharp aftershocks as she did so.

"Maker, Hawke…" he breathed, his hands trembling as he stroked her hair. "That was…"

Wickedly, she took his flagging cock as deep as she could and slowly dragged her mouth upward, sucking hard, and gave the head one final, flourishing swirl with her tongue.

Varric cried out sharply and bucked away.

"Pleasant, I hope?" she said with a satisfied smirk.

"You," growled the dwarf, reaching for her, "are a very evil woman."

"Me, evil?" exclaimed Hawke, allowing herself to be pulled up into Varric's embrace. "I never."

"Never what?" rumbled Varric, burying his face against her neck. "Don't even think of telling me you've never done _that_ before."

"I've never done that before," she answered innocently, and learned the second thing about dwarven anatomy.

Height and _strength_ are also not proportional. For their size, dwarves are very strong.

**-ooo-**

Varric tightened his arms around Hawke and rolled, pinning her underneath him.

"What was that?" he asked, dragging his fingers down the rogue's side and making her squirm.

"To you," Hawke amended, struggling futilely. "Blast it, Varric, stop tickling me!"

"Oh?" he murmured archly, ghosting his lips over one perfect nipple. "What would you prefer I do instead?"

"Touch me," she responded promptly, her back arching. "Make me scream."

Varric dug his fingers into her ribs gently. "I _am_ touching you," he replied. "And I bet I _could_ make you scream."

Hawke flinched away and tried to catch his hand.

"_Varric…_" the rogue's voice was caught halfway between begging and demanding.

"How _did_ you want me to touch you, then?" he asked in a low voice, reversing the direction of his hand and bringing it to her breast, caressing and squeezing the delightful handful before taking the pebbled tip into his warm mouth.

Hawke gasped and her back arched again. "Oh yes," she breathed. "Like that."

"Mmmm," Varric hummed, letting his hand skim back down, over her belly to the neat triangle of curls beneath her smalls. His fingers delved lower, into wet heat, and he felt his cock twitch and harden in response.

"Not like this, then?" he murmured against her breast, stroking along her entrance to the nub of flesh that crowned it.

Hawke shivered against him and cried out, her head flung back against the mattress.

"No?" Varric asked, raising his head and grinning at Hawke, making as if to pull his fingers away.

"Oh, Varric, _please_," Hawke begged, and the sound of it stirred something primal inside him.

This was _Hawke_, and she was begging for _him_.

He groaned softly, and set his fingers to work, dipping into her heat and out again to rub against her clit, while Hawke moaned and called his name and writhed against his hand.

She was so ancestors-be-damned _responsive_. Varric had never thought he could be this turned on by a human. He was already hard as a rock again, and as he watched Hawke come undone under his touch, he had an overwhelming desire to see her face as he slowly filled her, sinking deep into her velvety softness.

But fair was fair.

**-ooo-**

Sweet Andraste, she'd had _dreams_ like this.

It was hard, being surrounded by attractive male friends. Sooner or later, one of them was bound to play a starring role in your fantasies, waking or otherwise. But fantasies were not, in this case, anything as…heavenly… as reality.

All the fine motor control necessary to handle a crossbow with a hair trigger… oh, Maker, it really paid off. Varric's mouth was hot against her breasts, her nipples, her neck, and those fingers were breaking her to pieces.

Her thighs trembled as she neared climax, and intensity of the fire inside told her she was going to come hard.

She stilled suddenly, her back arched sharply and her breath caught in her throat, teetering on the knife's edge. Then Varric curled his fingers hard, pressing against that perfect spot on her walls, and sent her crashing into ecstasy, her body spasming almost violently.

Hawke screamed.

**-ooo-**

When Hawke came, it was nearly his undoing.

Her walls clenched hard on his fingers, and her body curled inwards, her hands fisting on nothing. A guttural scream was torn from her throat.

Varric's cock leapt. It was all he could do not to roll himself atop her and thrust as hard as he could into the waves of pleasure wracking her.

Instead, he held her close, murmuring to her softly, and continued to move his fingers gently, riding out her aftershocks until she lay bonelessly against him.

"Maker, Varric," she panted. "You…"

"Pleasant, I hope?" He echoed Hawke's words back to her.

She punched his shoulder weakly.

"Ow," he mocked, brushing a sweat-damp strand of Hawke's hair from her cheek.

"Sissy," she chided, cupping his face in her hand and guiding his lips to hers.

**-ooo-**

The kiss stayed tender for all of a few seconds before the fire between her thighs rose from embers to a healthy blaze and she began devouring Varric's mouth. Maker, she wanted him inside her.

She ran her hands down his sides to his hips, pulling him closer, and said so.

"Varric, _please_, now."

Okay, so it wasn't the most eloquent request, but her trusty dwarf got the message. Varric snapped the thin lace at her hips, ripping away her soaked smalls, and rolled on top of her, supporting himself on his elbows and positioning himself against her opening. Hawke wrapped her long legs around him, her hands still clutching at his hips.

Varric paused for a moment, looking down at her with a mixture of apprehension and desire.

"Hawke?" It was a question, one final offer to call the whole thing off.

"_Varric.._." Her response was a plea.

A shudder shot through the dwarf, and slowly, his eyes intent on her face, he pressed inside her.

Hawke gasped as her body stretched to accommodate Varric's generous size. Her fingers curled against his back, nails digging into his skin, as she arched against him, eyes closing in pleasure.

**-ooo-**

_Maker_. Hawke was hot and tight - so tight Varric was half afraid he would hurt her - and felt fucking _amazing_. He let out a shaky breath he didn't realize he'd been holding and held himself still, partly to let Hawke accustom herself to him, and partly to keep him from embarrassing himself by shooting off like a fumbling virgin.

When he'd gotten control of himself again, he rolled his hips, intending to set an easy pace and enjoy every smooth stroke in and out. He rolled his hips again, groaning at the indescribable sensation, and Hawke went crazy.

Her eyes flew open and she bucked her hips against his, driving him deep and hard. Her hands and legs pulled at him.

She jerked her hips again, making an insistent little sound in her throat, and Varric couldn't help but oblige her with a sharp shallow thrust.

Hawke cried out again, throwing her head back and grinding her hips against his.

Varric thrust again, allowing himself to go deeper this time, and Hawke rose to meet him. She grabbed at the back of his neck and pulled his head down to hers, kissing him with a ferocity that took his breath away.

"Varric, please," she gasped when she released him.

Unable to resist Hawke's plea, Varric found himself driving into her, deep and hard and fast.

"Yes," she cried. "Oh, Maker, yes."

And that was all it took. Varric abandoned all pretense of slow, languorous sex in favor of wild, driving sex. It wasn't usually his style, but something about Hawke's abandon was contagious. And somehow it felt…

_Perfect_.

**-ooo-**

It only took a moment for Hawke to decide that she loved Varric's cock. She'd been fond of it from the moment she'd laid eyes on it, but as it's thick length filled her, she was willing to concede love.

And then the damn dwarf began to move slowly, a torturous retreat and advance, clearly holding back when all Hawke wanted was to feel him as deep as it was possible for him to go, filling her as fully as she'd ever been filled.

Her hands grasped at him, her hips bucked against him, and she babbled _Varric_ and _please_, and other sounds that probably weren't actually words, and thought she might weep. And when he finally answered her pleas with a thrust that took her breath away with its sheer ecstasy, she would have sung the Chant to the highest heavens if only she could remember a word of it.

**-ooo-**

Perfect and amazing and astounding as it was, hot, wild sex is not an exercise in endurance. Hawke came first, and once Varric felt her walls rippling around him he stood no chance at all. Usually, his first climax was always the strongest, but Varric came inside Hawke so hard he felt it to the soles of his feet. He tried to cry out her name as he came, but ended up with a strangled, "Haw…nnggh."

He collapsed heavily on to one arm, trying to shield Hawke from the full brunt of his weight, but she wrapped her arms around him and pulled him to her chest.

They lay like that for some time, panting, hearts hammering against each other. Through the haze of afterglow, Varric found a smug and uncharitable thought crossing his mind.

_Choir Boy can keep his Chant. He has _no idea_ what he's missing._

He smiled to himself and pressed his lips to Hawke's neck.

_And I'm never going to let him find out._

* * *

_More A/N:  
_

_This chapter turned out... strange, but I'm behind on NaNoWriMo* and couldn't bring myself to rewrite it.  
_

_On the positive side, if you didn't like it, a new chapter (sans smut) will be up soon - it's nearly complete.  
_

_*Hovering around 16k as of this afternoon. Behind, but not so far behind as to have no chance of making the final word count.  
_


	33. Chapter 32

_A/N: And, as promised (and sooner than I expected), the next chapter. Entirely free of smut, but not guilt. What would we be without it? _

_Er... besides happier._

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Two**

The path winding down from Sundermount glowed red and golden in the early autumn sunlight.

"You know, Merrill, I can't help but get the feeling that what you're doing is, well, more dangerous than you think," Hawke said gently as they passed out of sight of the Dalish camp.

"Not you too, Hawke!" the elven mage exclaimed bitterly, a look of irritation on her normally sunny face. "I know what I'm doing."

"Do you?" replied Fenris, sharply. "This thing has led you to blood magic and driven your people from you." His lips twisted in a sneer. "Or was that always part of your plan?"

Hawke cast the former slave a warning glance, which he seemed to ignore.

"Why do you even care what I do?" Merrill shot back.

"I do not," Fenris answered levelly. "I care what happens to Hawke. Your willful blindness may lead to your own demise, but I would not see it doom Hawke as well."

"Fenris…" Hawke protested.

The elf subsided with a shake of his head.

Hawke rubbed her temple with one hand. It had been a long week, and today's task seemed to sum things up perfectly. On the face of it, something simple, straightforward - a trip to the Dalish encampment on Sundermount to have a chat with Keeper Marethari on Merrill's behalf - that suddenly turned into a steaming pile of dogshit. Open hostility toward Merrill from her own people, a chilly reception from the Keeper, an incomprehensible conversation about Dalish customs, and a giant insect-like construct of the ancient elves that tried to kill them. Oh, and an idiotic and pointless death.

No, it hadn't been a good week.

She wondered how Shepard and the others were getting on.

**-ooo-**

Shepard poked irritably at the fire with a stick, stirring up the embers before tossing another couple of branches into the pile.

Sebastian stirred at the contents of a cast iron pot nestled in a bed of coals. He'd gone out just after they'd made camp, returning with a small but plump rabbit and a pouch full of herbs. Based on the smell coming from the pot, Shepard had to agree with the prince's assessment that they could all use a hot meal.

Anders was propped up against their piled packs with his right calf resting on a smooth boulder. His hair had come undone from it's usual neat ponytail and hung around his smudged face in dirty tangles. A couple of blankets had been tucked around him, and he was sleeping, or at least resting with his eyes closed. Either way, his features still bore an expression of affronted indignation.

His right foot and ankle were snuggly bandaged.

"You know, Liara never talks about this kind of shit," Shepard said, seemingly apropos of nothing. "She claims archeology is long, boring hours in the dirt."

A faint smile crossed Sebastian's face as he lowered the lid back on the pot. "And so it was. Right up until it wasn't."

"All this for a few crayon pictures…" Shepard groused.

"Charcoal, I think you'll find," corrected Sebastian gently.

Shepard frowned and picked up her fire-poking stick again, stabbing at the burning wood until Sebastian reached over and laid a hand on her forearm. "You'll send up sparks that could start a wildfire," he admonished.

With a sigh, Shepard dropped the stick. "I just can't help thinking this was a waste of time," she said quietly.

Sebastian raised an auburn eyebrow. "Were you really counting on it to be otherwise?" he asked. "Thedas is a big place, Shepard. You would have to be extremely lucky to find what you're looking for on your first try."

She sighed again. "I know, I know. I just… I guess I was just hoping to be that lucky." Shepard shook her head. "I mean, there has to be some reason I landed in Kirkwall, you know? I mean, as opposed to say… Orlais or something."

Sebastian shrugged. "You would know better than I," he admitted.

Shepard looked over to the sleeping mage. "Poor Anders," she said. "I'll have to do something nice for him to make up for all this."

The prince nodded, although Shepard couldn't see it. "He deserves a great deal of credit, it's true. Both of us would have been very badly injured had he not been with us."

Shepard suddenly turned back to face him. "Does this change your opinion of him at all?"

Now it was Sebastian's turn to sigh. "You mistake me, Shepard. I do not dislike Anders. His work in Darktown is charitable, as the Maker instructs us to be, and is to be lauded. But that does not change the fact that he is an apostate, acting outside the Circle, and a danger to both himself and others."

"And yet all he does is heal people, at expense to nobody but himself. Doesn't that make you think that maybe the Circle isn't as necessary as you make it out to be? That maybe some - if not _most_ - mages just want to peacefully live their lives in freedom?"

"Shepard…"

Shepard blew a loud breath out her nose. "I know. It isn't as easy as that. But isn't it something that deserves to be considered? That there might be an alternative to lifelong imprisonment?"

Sebastian looked troubled. "If there is, I have yet to come up with it."

"Keep searching," Shepard urged, glancing back to Anders. "Because, whatever the good intentions, what you do now is _wrong_."

"You won't convince him, you know," came the mage's voice, roughened by sleep and pain.

Shepard moved around the fire to the healer's side. "Hey," she said, giving his arm a squeeze. "You feeling any better?"

"Apart from my foot hurting like the blazes and a terrible headache, you mean?"

"Yeah. Apart from that," Shepard said with a faint smile.

"Fabulous, thanks for asking."

**-ooo-**

Hawke stared at the new letters on her desk in the library without seeing them. Her mind simply wasn't on dubious fortunes in the Royal Bank of Antiva, or on the lack of giant spiders back in Ferelden.

She was thinking about Varric.

More precisely, she was caught between worry and daydreams. Worry because she was no longer sure how to categorize what she felt for the dwarf. Daydreams because she was finding it hard to forget how he'd touched her.

She cared about him. Well, obviously. He was her best friend, after all. That hadn't changed simply because they'd enjoyed an afternoon (and night… and early morning) of sex together. But what did you call someone you cared about and had sex with, apart from _lover_?

On the other hand, one encounter, no matter how enjoyable or protracted, did not constitute an upgrade in status from friend to lover. Maybe it would only ever be the once.

_Maker, I hope not,_ her mind interjected.

So why hadn't this ever been a problem with Isabela? After their initial drunken, giggling bout of _girly fun_, as the pirate put it, Hawke and Isabela had sought each others' beds fairly regularly. But Hawke had never questioned her feelings for Isabela. She liked the pirate, and she enjoyed bedding her, and that was the end of it. And what they did with each other didn't change what they might do with other people - it had never even occurred to Hawke to consider them exclusive, and she honestly couldn't imagine Isabela _ever_ limiting herself to a single partner.

Varric, though… something about the thought of him with another woman (or man, though Varric had never shown himself to be the least bit inclined to other men) made Hawke squirm uncomfortably. Was that a new development, or had Hawke simply never really thought about Varric… _with_… someone else before? Varric had always been discreet about his liaisons, and while Hawke's fantasies had often featured the dwarf, she hadn't really given much headroom to the idea of him actually taking a lover.

After all, Bianca seemed to fill that role, for all that she was a crossbow and not a flesh and blood woman.

_Wait…_ did that make her a cheater? Hawke held views about that sort of thing.

"Arrgh!" she cried, fisting her hands in her hair. Now she was just confusing herself! Bianca was a crossbow. A lovely crossbow, a crossbow that had saved her life - and the lives of her friends - on numerous occasions, a crossbow that her best friend was maybe a bit… _demonstrative_ with, but still just a crossbow.

After all, if someone was going to cheat on a crossbow, wouldn't it have to involve another bow?

**-ooo-**

"You're weak as a kitten, Shepard!" Anders reached out and caught the Spectre as she wobbled.

"I'll be fine once I find my feet."

"Be sensible, Shepard," Sebastian chimed in. "Let one of us carry you."

The return voyage to Kirkwall had proved even harder on Shepard than the trip to Cumberland had been. The Waking Sea had been rough and the best ship Sebastian had been able to find them passage on was nevertheless not very nice at all. The ship carried ale and rum, but no fresh water, and the three travelers' accommodations were in the hold, barely out of the bilges.

Not even the recipe for Sylvie's remedy helped Shepard. For the past four days, she'd barely been able to keep down a few sips of stale water from the dregs of their waterskins. She was severely dehydrated.

Unfortunately, she was also a marine.

She pointed to her legs. "You see these?" she said irritably. "They're not broken."

Anders caught Sebastian's gaze and rolled his eyes. "Suit yourself," he said.

Shepard reached down to grab her pack, and the extra weight of it nearly toppled her. This time, it was Sebastian who put an arm out to steady her.

"Shepard?" Sebastian asked.

"I'm fine. A little weak, but fine," she snapped.

"Shepard, look at me," Anders instructed.

With a huff, Shepard turned to face the healer.

Anders' arms were already moving. Even before she'd completed the turn, one glowing hand had caught her by the back of the neck while the fingers of the other hand pressed into her forehead. As she dropped bonelessly, the mage eased her to the deck.

"What…?" breathed Sebastian.

"Sleep spell," Anders explained shortly. "I've found they work much better when you actually touch the person you're trying to affect." He looked down at the slumbering woman. "I gave it a fair bit of power, so she'll be out for a while - certainly long enough for us to cart her up to the alienage. We'll put her to bed and I'll stay and keep an eye on her for a few days to make sure she recovers properly."

Sebastian shook his head slightly. "She's not going to be pleased when she wakes up."

Anders shrugged. "I can deal with it."

The prince gave the mage a look that hovered on friendly amusement. "Would it be impolite to say _better you than me_?"

Anders chuckled. "Yes."

"I shall refrain, then." With a faint smile, Sebastian stooped and deftly untangled Shepard from her pack. "If you will take her pack, I will carry our stubborn friend."

"Deal."

As Sebastian gathered the unconscious Shepard into his arms, Anders hefted her pack onto his shoulder along with his own.

"Did you need me to take yours as well?" he asked. "Shepard's pretty solid."

"Perhaps she was," Sebastian said with a frown, "But she seems far too light to me now."

Anders snorted. "Well, she's going to spend the next couple of days with nothing to do but lay in bed and eat soup and recover, even if I have to tie her to the bloody bedposts."

"I pray that Isabela never hears you say that."

"Me too."

**-ooo-**

No, that was just crazy. Hawke _wasn't_ a cheater, and Bianca was _just_ a crossbow.

_There_. _Nothing to worry about. Except the whole bedding my best friend thing._

Out of the corner of her eye, Hawke saw the bottle of Tevinter wine that someone had gifted her weeks ago. After Fenris and his assertions about Tevinter wine and the blood and sweat of slaves, she'd never actually opened it. It did seem a bit odd that Bodahn hadn't taken it down to the wine cellar, but perhaps he thought she'd left it on the desk on purpose - maybe as a reminder to send a thank you note to the sender, which she had almost certainly forgotten to do.

With a long sigh, Hawke's left hand swiped out and snatched the neck of the bottle. She sat up in the chair and fished around on the desk for her letter opener, which she used to pry up the wax seal and skewer the cork inside.

Casting a quick, guilty look over her shoulder - her mother also held views, one of which being that you always drank out of a glass (she'd insist on drinking rotgut out of a glass, would her mother) - Hawke took a long pull on the bottle.

Well, if Tevinter wine was made from the blood and sweat of slaves - even metaphorically - that would certainly account for the bitterness. The liquid within the bottle was sharp and thin, but with a heat that indicated its potency.

It would do.

**-ooo-**

Sebastian and Anders trudged wearily through the docks. Shepard's head kept insisting on lolling back off the archer's shoulder, no matter how many times Anders nudged it forward. The mage suspected that she'd be drooling if her body could spare the fluid. Maybe he'd given the spell a _bit_ too much power.

They were a few feet from the steep stairwell to Lowtown and the alienage when two brooding figures detached themselves from the wall and blocked their path. Red paint covered their chests and the lower half of their faces, and they both carried heavy spears.

Qunari.

"Excuse me," Sebastian began politely, and was cut off.

"You will release the basra called Shepard," said one of the pair with a nod to the unconscious woman.

"What?" said Anders, in confusion. "Why?"

"Release her now," repeated the qunari, shifting his grip on his spear purposefully.

"We are not holding her against her will," Sebastian explained. "She is ill, and sleeping."

This explanation did not seem to hold water with the ox-men. Their stance shifted, and the one who had remained silent now leveled the tip of his spear at Sebastian's throat.

"What part of _she's ill_ don't you understand?" Anders demanded as hotly as he dared. "Shepard needs rest and care, not another lecture about your precious qun."

"Watch your tongue, basra," growled the spokesman of the two.

"Hello? Are you even _listening_? Shepard is _sick_. Possibly gravely so." Anders was beginning to lose his temper.

"Easy, Anders," murmured Sebastian quietly. "Please, serah, let us pass. My companion speaks the truth. Do not delay us further, I beseech you." The prince made one more bid for diplomacy.

"No."

"Of all the…" Anders began, only to be drowned out by a voice from the entrance to the qunari compound.

"You will give Shepard to me. Now."

Anders looked in the direction of the new voice. Sebastian, however, hadn't taken his eyes off the qunari with the spears, deeming it imprudent to ignore a finely honed blade when it was aimed at him.

"Andraste's flaming knickers," the mage muttered. "It's the Arishok."

**-ooo-**

Hawke had moved to the armchair before the fireplace and was staring into the flames when Bodahn knocked softly on the door and entered.

"Guard-Captain Aveline is here to see you, messere," he informed her, standing aside to allow the tall, ginger-headed woman to pass.

Hawke looked up, her brooding expression dissolving into a smile. "Aveline," she exclaimed, holding her arms wide in welcome. "How nice of you to visit."

The Guard-Captain's lips twitched. "I hope you'll still feel that way after I tell you why I'm here," she said wryly. "How about it? Are you up for some side work?"

"What?" the rogue gave her a look of disbelief. "You didn't just come to have a piece of Orana's pie and reminisce about old times?"

"Perhaps later," smiled the captain. The smile faded and she folded her arms sternly. "_Someone's_ trying to be a guard," she stated. "_Poorly_. Remember Emeric - the templar?"

"I remember," Hawke nodded vigorously.

"He's become a thorn in my side, inventing trouble and scaring people," said Aveline, striding further into the room and turning to look into the fire. "He wants _your_ help, and some sort of official sanction."

Hawke blinked owlishly. "Official sanction?"

"For his '_investigation'_." Aveline shook her head. "He's convinced that every random murder in the past few years is connected," she muttered sourly. "And he _won't_ be quiet."

Hawke held up one hand, fingers splayed, and closed it into a fist. "Muzzle the geezer," she giggled. "Got it."

"I would never say…" Aveline's eyes narrowed. "Hawke," she chided, "have you been _drinking_?"

"Yes I have." Hawke smiled glassily and reached over the arm of the chair and produced the bottle of wine. "Join me?"

"_Hawke…_" Aveline said with exasperation.

"I'll take that as a no, then."

"Look, if it leads somewhere genuine, I'll pick it up on your word." She paused for a moment. "But if he shuts up, that's good too."

"Muzzle the geezer…" Hawke hiccuped.

"Yes, Hawke," sighed Aveline. "He's in the Gallows. But do me a favor and sober up before you talk to him, all right?"

"For you, Aveline, anything," declared Hawke expansively. "Terrible wine anyway."

"Thanks, Hawke." The Guard-Captain gave the rogue a glance laced with her usual mixture of affection and aggravation. "I appreciate it."

She paused at the doorway. "And Hawke?"

"Mmm?"

"Drink some water before you give yourself a hangover to remember."

**-ooo-**

The Arishok strode forward, stepping purposefully down the small set of stairs before the qunari's gate. One of the largest axes Anders had ever seen rested against his shoulder. Not threatening, exactly. Just… meaningfully.

"Arishok," Anders intoned formally. "I'm afraid Shepard is sick and needs a healer's care." He straightened his shoulders, trying not to stare at the ax, and added, "She can choose to answer your summons once she has recovered. Until then,"

The giant swung the ax from his shoulder easily. Again, not in a deliberately threatening way. It didn't need to be.

"…I suppose you would be able to visit with her tomorrow morning." Anders stared up at the qunari leader. "_In bed_," he insisted pointedly.

The Arishok raised an eyebrow without looking at him. "No."

He rolled his massive shoulder, bringing the ax up and around his head. For a moment, Anders thought they were about to die, but then the ax handle was sliding into a back-mounted sheath, next to a truly monstrous sword.

Anders took a step forward. "As a healer, I can't let you do this," he warned.

The Arishok moved forward as well, though his eyes were not on Anders, but Sebastian. With surprise, Anders realized that they'd never left the archer and his burden.

"The asa will tend to Shepard," he said flatly. "You will give her to me, or I will _take_ her."

"Who, or what, the blazes is an asa?" demanded Anders, retreating to stand between as many of the qunari and Shepard as possible and raising one hand defensively.

"A physician," answered a voice from behind the Arishok. "A healer, as you bas would put it."

A human man with a scarred face stepped out from the Arishok's shadow. "Please, do as he says, and quickly."

"You're human," exclaimed Anders.

"An astute observation," said the man. "But wrong. I am qunari."

"But…"

"If you do not wish to be harmed, step aside now. Shepard will be cared for," the man insisted.

Anders had a fraction of a second to respond, as the Arishok was less than a stride away. He dropped his hand, straightened out of the defensive crouch he'd unconsciously adopted, and glanced back at Sebastian and Shepard.

And moved aside.

"Anders," murmured Sebastian, "are you sure?"

"No," muttered the healer in response, "but I _am_ sure we'll die if we don't."

The prince finally took his eyes off the spear leveled at him, and looked up at the Arishok. He gently offered up Shepard's sleeping form. "Please care for her well. She is our friend, and we would not see her ill-treated."

To Sebastian's surprise, the Arishok was glaring daggers at him, and as the giant reached out to take Shepard from him - though_ snatch_ might be a better word for it - the prince could sense the barely controlled violence in every line of the qunari's body.

As soon as Shepard had been transferred to his arms, the Arishok turned abruptly on his heel and stalked back into the compound. The asa glanced once between his retreating form and Anders, gave a frustrated huff, and hurried after the giant.

Before them, the qunari blocking the way forward relaxed their weapons and melted aside, but their eyes remained trained suspiciously on the ragged pair of travelers.

Sebastian and Anders exchanged glances.

"I think now would be a good time to go, don't you?" murmured Sebastian.

"Absolutely."

* * *

_I swear I'm gonna start counting ALL the words I write towards NaNo. Just realized how many words these last two chapters were. _

_What is it about me that makes me write prolifically when A) I should be writing something else, and B) when I have the luxury of writing what I want, when I want, I don't write squat?_


	34. Chapter 33

**Chapter Thirty-Three**

Shepard was both relieved and a little disoriented to find herself on a cot, and one that wasn't on a floor that was heaving alarmingly at that. She was more relieved to find that she wasn't heaving alarmingly, either.

"If I'd have known this was your intention, I might not have agreed to your suggestion," said a familiar voice.

Shepard let her head roll to the side. It caused her brain to thump, but her stomach didn't so much as gurgle.

Asa walked over and offered her a small cup. "Drink slowly. Small sips," he instructed.

Shepard was already reclined with her upper body raised in a half-seated position. She took the cup and realized she was more thirsty than she could ever remember being. _Ever_. She was _parched_.

The liquid in the cup looked like water, but was sweet and salty like rehydration juice. It was also tepid. Shepard's body tensed when she swallowed, expecting a violent upheaval, but there was none.

"Why am I here?" Shepard's voice sounded like the desert floor; dry, cracked, and broken.

"I'll give you one guess."

"The Arishok?"

"Yes."

"Not gone long enough?" Shepard croaked.

Asa shrugged. "Perhaps. And perhaps it would not have worked in any event." He sighed. "He has been _difficult_."

He sat on a stool beside her. "But maybe you could tell me how you ended up like _this_." He waved a hand to indicate her whole body.

Shepard grimaced. "Evidently, I'm not cut out for ocean travel."

"You were seasick?" Asa sounded astonished. "Didn't you once tell me you had a ship and a crew?"

"Not the same," Shepard said weakly.

"Oh?" Asa arched a dark brow. "And how is that?"

"Inertial dampeners, for a start."

"Inertial dampeners?" Asa's face creased in puzzlement. "Is that… the movement of the ship by the waves is lessened somehow?"

It was Shepard's brows turn to rise. "How did you guess that?"

"I speak several languages, Shepard," said the healer reproachfully. "I'm good with words."

"Well, don't get cocky. You're only half-right," Shepard groused.

"There also weren't any waves."

**-ooo-**

"I'm worried about Daisy, Hawke."

Hawke glanced over at Varric. "More than this Gascard Du Puis fellow?"

"She just sits in her apartment, staring at that mirror," the dwarf went on, as if she hadn't spoken.

"What? She's not out invading people's airing cupboards or bathing chambers?" Hawke asked. "That _is_ odd."

"I tried to coax her out for a walk around Lowtown yesterday. She wouldn't even go out on threat of kittens."

Hawke smiled. "I can see you took a hard line."

Varric rolled his eyes at her. "Scoff all you want. I'm telling you, there's something not right in that fluffy little head."

Hawke sighed. "I'm afraid I'm not going to be much help, Varric. She's not speaking to me at the moment."

"Not speaking to you?" Varric asked. "When did that happen?"

"About the time I questioned whether her quest to repair that… _thing_ was worth it. You know, just after she confessed to fearing for her sanity because she'd started hallucinating dead elves in the streets of Lowtown. Dead Dalish elves."

"You really can pick them, can't you?" Varric shook his head sadly.

Hawke gave him an affronted look. "I picked you, didn't I?"

Varric snorted. "Actually, I picked you, if you remember."

Hawke waved this detail away as inconsequential. "I agreed to being picked," she said loftily. "So it's the same thing, really."

"If you say so," the dwarf said dubiously.

"I do," Hawke declared. "My taste in dwarves is impeccable. Ask anyone."

"I won't argue that," Varric agreed.

They fell silent, with only the lapping of the harbor's waters and the creak of the Gallows ferry's oar to distract them from their thoughts.

"Listen, Hawke," Varric went on, his tone hesitant. "Speaking of your taste in dwarves…"

"My _impeccable_ taste in dwarves," Hawke corrected.

"About the other night…"

Hawke tensed slightly. "Yes?"

"You don't… regret it, do you?"

"Maker, no!" Hawke looked surprised. "Of course not."

She fidgeted slightly. "Do you?"

"No!" Varric struggled with his conscience a moment and added, "Well, once I reconciled myself to the fact that there's a place in the Void for me for allowing my lust to interfere with our friendship. After that," he shrugged, "I was good."

"_Your_ lust?" Hawke sputtered. "_I _seduced _you_."

"Only because I called your bluff."

"Not entirely." She paused. "Which reminds me… you owe me a new pair of Orlesian silk knickers AND a silk ribbon for my daggers."

"Trifles."

"You won't be saying that when you find out what they cost."

**-ooo-**

Shepard finished the cup of… whatever it was… and handed it back to Asa, who rose and refilled it from a small pot.

"So I understand the why, but not the how," she said curiously. "The last thing I remember is arguing with Anders and Sebastian back on the boat."

The healer took his time returning to her. "You were unconscious when you arrived. The Arishok has had the antaam watching all entrances to the city since he learned of your departure," he said slowly. He sat back down and returned the cup to her hand. "It was only a matter of time."

Shepard struggled fully upright. "If he hurt Anders or Sebastian, he's going to be one sorry son of a bitch," she threatened.

Asa restrained her with a hand. "The archer and the bas saarebas were not harmed. They weren't happy about it, but they finally agreed to release you to him before things got… unpleasant."

The healer cleared his throat. "The Arishok showed remarkable restraint, actually."

"In kidnapping me?"

"In not killing the archer outright."

Shepard's brows creased. "Why? What did Sebastian say?"

Asa gave her a look of gentle rebuke. "He was touching you."

"Touching me?"

"Holding you," the healer clarified. "In his arms."

"What the hell happened on that boat?!"

Asa shook his head. "You were… asleep, said the bas saarebas. The archer was carrying you."

"_Shepard, look at me." The mage's voice, the touch of his hands against her neck and forehead, and then… nothing._

"Anders…" she growled. "That bastard used his hocus-pocus to knock me out, didn't he?"

"Did he?" Asa asked. "It would certainly explain why you were so unresponsive to waking." He glanced at the cup in her hand. "Drink."

Shepard did as she was told. Her thirst was still terrible.

"But… if I was out like a light, what did the Arishok expect them to do? Build some kind of litter and have it carried by a pack of eunuchs? I mean, it's not as if he'd caught Sebastian in flagrante delicto or anything."

Asa gave her an odd look. "I… have not heard that term used before, but I _think_ I understand your meaning."

"We often use it to refer to being caught with your pants around your ankles. Literally." She shrugged, and continued her argument. "Besides, Sebastian's taken a vow of celibacy."

"And _you_ are expecting logic where there is no room for such." He pointed at the cup again. "Drink."

"How can a people be so coldly calculating, and yet not be able to master something so basic as hormones?" Shepard complained.

"Yes, because you bas are _so good_ at that," the healer retorted sarcastically.

"But we don't claim to have all the answers to the proper ordering of the universe, either." Shepard finished off the last of her second cup and shook her head. "Sorry, Asa, but your people are annoyingly smug about it."

Asa sighed. "How you perceive the qunari is of little point," he said. "What _is_ to the point is that our problem remains. The Arishok is still bound by the burning tide."

Shepard glanced around the darkened room. "Where is Mr Charming, anyway?"

"I ordered him to leave," said Asa simply. "I imagine he is currently making life more difficult for someone."

Shepard frowned. "Why is it you can order him to leave, but you can't order him to sequester himself?"

Asa gazed at her calmly. "It is within my role to order him out of my infirmary when he is interfering with the care of my patients."

"But not when he's threatening the safety of himself and others outside that infirmary."

The healer huffed impatiently. "I have no intention of arguing the qun with you, Shepard." He snatched the cup from her hand and set it beside the pot. "I am going to see what happened to the broth I asked for," he added. "Don't even think about getting off that cot while I'm gone."

"Yes, sir." Shepard responded sourly as the healer retreated.

She _did_ think about it, though. Right up to the point where a massive, horned shadow appeared in the gloom of the infirmary doorway.

"You are awake, basra." It wasn't clear if the words were a statement or a question.

"What the hell were you thinking, threatening my squad and practically kidnapping me?" she snapped in response.

The Arishok moved closer and answered with a question. "You left the city. Why?"

"There were some ruins out near Cumberland that I wanted to look at," Shepard replied tightly.

"You did not inform me of your intention."

She'd gone nearly sixteen days without being subject to that intense yellow stare, or the qunari leader's arrogant pronouncements. Granted, for thirteen of them she'd been subjected to nearly continual mild bickering between Anders and Sebastian over the Chantry and the plight of the mages, and for seven of them she'd been miserably sick as a dog. At the moment, Shepard couldn't decide which was worse.

"Oh, I'm _sorry_," she said sarcastically. "I clearly forgot to fill out an AS7 form, in triplicate, and submit it for proper authorization." She glared at him. "Will you get it through your thick, horned skull that I am not answerable to you?"

She pointed to the pot. "And get me another cup of that… stuff… in the pot."

"Please," she tacked on with less than perfect grace.

The Arishok stared at her for half a minute longer than was comfortable. His respiration had already increased.

_Great, Shepard. You really know how to diffuse a bad situation, don't you? What the hell happened to whatever magic you used to get the krogans and turians working together and end a three hundred year war between the quarians and the geth? Did you forget the meaning of the word diplomacy, you bosh'tet?_

Without a word, the Arishok turned and filled the cup from the pot and brought it to her.

"Thank you," she said quietly, taking it from his hand.

Before she could raise it to her lips, the Arishok caught her wrist. "This is not the way things should be, basra," he said heavily.

Shepard paused for a moment. "No," she said. "It's not."

He released her wrist, and she gulped at the now-cold liquid. "The tamassrans say such a thing is not possible," he added.

"I guess they were wrong."

The Arishok made a rumble of assent, watching Shepard's every movement.

Shepard rested her hands in her lap, cradling the cup in her palm and staring at it. Then she tilted her head questioningly, once more lifting the cup to her lips. "What do you propose we should do about it?"

"Do?" The massive brow lifted. "That is clear," he said simply. "We will mate."

Shepard choked on a mouthful of liquid. "What?" she gasped. "I thought you said this is not the way things should be!"

"It is not," he answered. "But the demand of the qun is the same."

"Look," Shepard said hastily, "it's not as if I don't sort of like you, in the way you like someone who frustrates and annoys the hell out of you but has still earned your respect. But I'm not having sex with you."

"That will change," the giant replied with a shrug.

"If you mean that you'll not only frustrate and annoy me but will also _lose_ my respect, you might be right," Shepard growled.

"The frustration is mutual," the Arishok growled back. "As is the annoyance."

"But not the respect?"

The Arishok shifted irritably. "It has been suggested that you are basalit-an," he admitted reluctantly. "Worthy of respect."

"And yet you're standing there telling me you have every intention of raping me," she shot back.

The Arishok's eyes blazed at her. "I said nothing of rape!"

"So what do you call mating with someone against their will?"

"Why would it be against your will?" he demanded. "You initiated this!"

"I didn't intend for this to happen!" she shouted. "It doesn't work that way for humans!"

"No." The Arishok's voice was quiet again. "The asa has explained this."

"And?"

"It is difficult."

There was a tiny note of petulance in the horned giant's voice, and Shepard couldn't help but laugh.

His brows drew down thunderously. "You find it amusing?"

"Sorry," she apologized, and tried to compose herself. "If Asa explained it to you, what's the problem?" She held up a hand to indicate she wasn't finished. "Besides the fact that it's difficult."

"You bas are not simple," he complained. "You say one thing and do another. It is as if you do not even know your own minds."

"Sometimes we don't," Shepard acknowledged.

"Then I will provide you with certainty," he said firmly, squaring his shoulders. "As the qun demands."

_Oh, shit. I don't like the sound of that…_

"Arishok…" Shepard began, but he was already on his way out the door.

**-ooo-**

"Hawke, if losing to you was always that enjoyable, you'd own House Tethras by now," Varric proclaimed.

"Looking for a rematch?" Hawke asked with her trademark grin.

Varric rolled his eyes. "Blazes, Hawke," he said. "A dwarf could get his hopes up, you know."

Hawke gave him a level look. "I wasn't joking."

"You…"

Varric sat down heavily. "You're _not_ shitting me?"

Hawke shook her head. "Not in the least."

The dwarf was silent. To ease her discomfort, Hawke dug around in her coinpurse and began twirling a half-sovereign between her fingers.

Varric watched the coin as it danced over her knuckles and through her fingers.

Finally, he cleared his throat.

"My place, tonight?"

The coin flipped and spun through the air. Hawke caught it without looking.

"Yes." She paused. "But Varric…"

"Hmm?"

"Leave your boots off for me, okay?"

**-ooo-**

Asa returned with a covered bowl and a pitcher.

"I thought I told you not to leave that cot," he said sternly.

"Shit, Asa," Shepard said, hunting around for the pieces of her hardsuit. "I've got to get out of here."

"Get back in bed this instant," he ordered.

Shepard stopped what she was doing and glared at him. "The Arishok dropped by while you were gone," she said. "He's threatening me with_ certainty_. And also with mating."

"Certainty?" Asa echoed. "In what context?"

"Oh, you know," Shepard's voice had an edge of panic to it. "The qun, my _supposed_ desire to mate with him, the general inferiority of all us bas, _his_ very clear intention to mate with _me_, the difficulties with humans, and, oh yes, I nearly forgot… _mating_."

"Calm down, Shepard," Asa snapped. "You shouldn't be out of bed yet. I have no idea how badly damaged your kidneys are."

"My kidneys are the least of my problems," Shepard declared. "Let the implants sort them out. Cerberus should get their money's worth out of them."

"You fought with him again, didn't you?" Asa said wearily.

Shepard threw up her hands. "I can't help it!" she cried. "He just… _ugh_! It's like he knows exactly how to piss me off."

"Maybe there's something to the burning tide after all," Asa suggested. "If he can get under your skin that easily."

Asa was surprised at how still Shepard went. "You take that back," she said in a low growl. "You take that back _right now_."

He tipped his head. "Does it bother you so much to think you might be attracted to him?"

"Him, no," Shepard rolled her eyes. "But that would mean I was attracted to that ass Udina and the Illusive Man as well." Her eyes hardened dangerously. "And there's no way in_ hell_ I'll accept that."

"Who?"

"Two other people who knew exactly how to piss me off," she snarled. "And both traitors who cost me the lives of people I loved."

Belatedly, Shepard realized that her heart was racing dangerously, and her lungs seemed unable to take in enough air.

"Aw, shit," she said, and sagged to the floor.

Asa dropped down beside her. "Easy, Shepard," he murmured. "Lean forward and rest your head between your knees."

"Dizzy," she muttered.

"I don't doubt that," the physician said wryly. "Now do you see why I told you to stay in bed?"

"But… the Arishok…"

"Take slow, deep breaths," Asa instructed, his fingers grasping Shepard's wrist at the pulse point, "and listen to me carefully. When the Arishok confronted them, your friends were willing to fight for you rather than give you up. They were concerned for your health - and clearly with good reason. Both the Arishok and I gave our word that you would be well-cared for as a condition for your friends to release you and avoid bloodshed. And yet here you are doing everything in your power to undermine that and cause further injury to yourself."

"But he…"

"I wasn't finished," Asa snapped. "I have no intention of allowing you to interfere with my duty any further. If I have to, I will post a guard on you round the clock with the instruction to physically restrain you if you so much as attempt to sit up without my express permission. I don't care how used to command you are, for the next several days you _will_ answer to my authority, if I have to chain you to the wall to ensure your compliance."

Shepard had lifted her head to stare at the healer in dumbfounded surprise.

"Do you understand me?" The deep green ring around his hazel eyes seemed even more pronounced as Asa underscored the emphatic question with a squeeze of his fingers on her wrist.

"Yes, sir," Shepard replied softly, feeling considerably chastised.

"Good." Asa helped her to her feet and gently steered her back to the cot. As he settled her in, he added in a more reconciliatory tone, "I will see to it that the Arishok keeps his distance as well. For now, we worry about your blood and your kidneys, not the Arishok's certainty, all right?"

Shepard exhaled long and slow. "All right."

Asa retrieved the covered bowl and handed it to Shepard. "You will want to drink it slowly," he warned as he removed the lid. "After you have finished it, I'll help you to the privy, and then I'd like you to try to rest for a while."

He indicated the pitcher. "This is plain water. For right now, I want you to drink it sparingly. Rehydrating you too fast or with the wrong salt balance will do more harm than good."

The broth in the bowl was a golden color and smelled good enough to make Shepard's mouth water. Upon sipping it, Shepard found that it had a rich flavor - the kind of flavor you often expect but never seem to get from broth. She tried to pace herself the way Asa had instructed, but found herself slurping greedily.

"When was the last time you ate?" Asa asked.

Shepard gave a shake of her head. "Before we got on the boat in Cumberland? Once we were away from the dock, all I did was concentrate on trying to keep water down. Anders tried to make me some of this broth or tea that helped my seasickness on the trip from Kirkwall to Cumberland, but either he didn't get the recipe right, or I was too seasick for it to help."

Asa sighed. "Malnutrition and dehydration. I've got to get a look at your urine." His voice was abstracted - it was clear he was talking as much or more to himself than to Shepard.

He shook himself and gave her an apologetic tip of his head. "Looking at your urine can…"

Shepard waved the explanation aside. "I know. Remember, I'm more used to medicine than magic, myself. But if you want a diagnostic, just bring me my omni-tool," she gestured at her left forearm, "and I can give you one."

Asa's brows drew downward. "The thing you normally wear on your arm? I'm afraid it wasn't there when you arrived."

Shepard swore. "That's right. It was in my pack. I was hiding it from Anders, so he'd quit pestering me every five minutes for an update on my condition."

"What?" she added, at Asa's look. "We knew what was wrong with me. How was knowing I'd lost another tenth of a percent of my body fluid going to change anything? He was doing everything he could."

"You are a terrible patient, Shepard."

"Tell me something I don't know."

**-ooo-**

"What do you mean, the Arishok has her?" Hawke gave Sebastian an incredulous stare. "She's his prisoner?"

Sebastian fidgeted and looked uncomfortable. "I don't truly know, Hawke," he confessed. "He demanded that she be turned over to him, but the qunari healer said she'd be cared for."

"And Shepard agreed to this?" If Hawke's voice had been incredulous before, it had now passed well beyond the barrier of disbelief.

"She was unconscious."

Hawke ceased all movement. Then, very slowly, she put her head in her hands. "If I ask why she was unconscious, I'm not going to like the answer, am I?"

"Anders used a sleep spell on her." Now Sebastian looked guilty as hell. "It was… it seemed a fine idea at the time," he went on, helplessly. "Shepard was so weak and yet she was insisting on walking and carrying her pack with no assistance from us. Anders thought it best not to try arguing with her, but to simply apologize later."

Hawke raised her head and stared into middle distance. "Shepard is going to kill him," she said flatly.

"Provided she escapes the Arishok," Sebastian sighed morosely.

"The Viscount is going to kill _me_," Hawke muttered. "He's done everything to keep the qunari quiet and peaceful, and we just planted the human equivalent of the qunari's powder right in their midst."

"We did not. The Arishok took it upon himself," Sebastian corrected stiffly. "And saying no was not an option."

Hawke sighed. "Where is Anders, anyway?"

"He had no sooner set foot in Darktown than he was accosted by someone requesting his help with a difficult childbirth."

"Childbirth?"

"So the boy claimed."

Hawke quirked an eyebrow. "Boy? Sounds awfully young for a father-to-be."

Sebastian shook his head. "His mother, not his wife."

Small, deft fingers drummed the arm of Hawke's chair, and her expression grew pained. "I'm going to have to go talk to him, aren't I?" she complained.

"Anders?" Sebastian asked in surprise.

Hawke flashed him a look of annoyance. "No. The Arishok."

The prince's eyes seemed troubled. "I don't know if that is a wise decision," he said slowly. "He seemed rather… volatile."

"Oh, fine. Even better," Hawke replied with sarcastic cheer. "There's nothing I like better than a volatile and well-armed giant."

"Hawke…"

"Don't _Hawke_ me. I can't just abandon Shepard to an uncertain fate at the hands of the qunari." She paused. "Well, I suppose I could. But I won't. Not to mention abandoning the qunari to a much more certain fate at the hands of Shepard."

"She is unarmed."

Hawke stopped again. "What?"

Sebastian moistened his lips nervously. He wasn't sure which was worse, Shepard's fury or Hawke's biting sarcasm. He had a feeling he'd be seeing a lot of both in the future.

"She was ill," he explained. "She was wearing a shirt and loose breeches. Her armor, weapon, and that tool she wears were all in her pack."

"So you're telling me that Shepard is alone and unarmed, possibly still unconscious, and may or may not be a prisoner of the qunari?"

Sebastian shifted again. "Yes."

"Oh. Well, then," Hawke said brightly, "that's all right."

"You don't really mean that, do you?" Sebastian wasn't sure if his tone was hopeful or aghast.

Hawke rolled her eyes. "What do you think?"

**-ooo-**

It wasn't the first time Shepard had taken a piss test, but it was certainly among the strangest. And the most painful.

"I think I'm pissing razor blades here," she muttered uncomfortably. "I thought you said _mild burning sensation_."

The latter was directed to Asa, who took the glass jar from Shepard and held it up so he could peer intently at its contents.

"Painful urination is not uncommon in cases of dehydration," he said abstractedly. "Unless your kidneys have been severely compromised, the pain should diminish as your body returns to a more normal fluid level in the next few days."

_If I recorded that and played it back at double speed, I'd swear I was listening to Mordin. Except that he probably would have omitted an _is_ and a couple of _the_'s. And possibly given me an embarrassing lecture on human urinary function._

"Days?" she complained. "Seriously, Asa. I've had UTIs that weren't this bad."

"UTI?" Asa tore his eyes from contemplation of her piss to give Shepard a questioning look.

"Urinary tract infection."

"Ah." And his eyes were back on the amber fluid as if it were some kind of liquid gold, or perhaps held the answers to all the questions of the universe.

"Can I get up now?"

With a slight start, Asa realized he was blocking Shepard's egress from the infirmary's privy - a privy which, Shepard had been happy to find, was a vast cut above the ubiquitous Kirkwall bucket. He stepped aside. "Of course."

Shepard stood up and re-tied the drawstring on the loose pants she wore. Asa shifted the jar to his left hand and took Shepard's elbow with his right, steadying her as they made their way back to her cot.

While they'd busied themselves with the business of Shepard's… business, two of the karasaad had erected what looked like rice paper screens around the area that held the cot. The effect was an actual feeling of privacy, completely unlike the thin curtains in a med center. Shepard thanked the qunari healer sincerely.

"Anything to keep you where you should be," he answered. "I did promise I would keep the Arishok from pestering you."

Shepard gave him a look as she pulled a blanket up to her chest. "I wouldn't call it pestering. Pestering implies a level of mild irritation, not utter panic."

"Asa," she asked thoughtfully after a moment, "I know you're not a tamassran, but how is it that a male kossith knows if a female is fighting him as a test of prowess because she _wants_ to mate with him, or if she's fighting him because he's attempting to mate with her and she's an unwilling partner?"

Asa gave her a surprised look. "It is obvious. A female in the burning tide will fight only until the male proves himself. If she was defending herself, she would fight to death or incapacitation."

"So it might not be so obvious initially - both females would start out fighting, but the one that is interested just gives up at a certain point?"

"Not _gives up_, no," Asa said with a faint smile. "That would imply inaction. And kossith females, once the male has proven himself to their satisfaction, are certainly not inactive in the mating process." He gave her a direct look. "On the contrary, they tend to be very… _enthusiastic_."

Shepard felt herself flush slightly. "Oh," she said.

"Both males and females can bear scars from particularly… _intense_… mating."

She remembered one of her early conversations with one of the karasaad.

"_You have many scars."_

_Shepard had shrugged. "I've been in a lot of fights."_

"_Humans are aggressive when they mate."_ _It had sounded like a statement of approval from the soldier._

She felt the flush deepen and groaned to herself. She'd lost her shirt in one of her sparring matches - when it was torn by her opponent, she'd chosen to discard it and continue in her (brand new, at that point) bra rather than risk getting caught up in the fabric when it mattered. Between the scars on her arms and torso and those on her face, the kossith must think _she_ was quite _enthusiastic_ as well. She buried her flaming face in her hands.

Asa glanced over at her. "What is it?"

"Nothing," she said, her voice muffled. "Just that I now realize what the antaam must think of me."

The healer chuckled dryly. "Spread your legs and you're a wild thing?"

Shepard groaned again. "Thanks for stating it with such dignity and respect, Asa."

He chuckled again. "Actually, you'd be surprised. I think most of them aren't sure _what_ to think of you." He turned and rested his hip against the small table set against the wall. "It's obvious that you are a soldier, and equally obvious that you're female. You are an anomaly. Add to that your treatment of the Arishok as if he was an equal… No, Shepard, I think all you do is confuse them."

"The feeling is mutual."

"Except, might I add," Asa continued with a hint of a smirk, "your friend the ashaad. Apparently, he has developed quite the respect for you, basra."

"Basalit-an?" Shepard asked, curiously.

Once again, Asa looked surprised. "You've heard the term, then."

"The Arishok mentioned it."

"Did he?" The healer shrugged. "So far, the Arishok has yet to declare you basalit-an. And whatever he might think privately, the ashaad isn't about to contradict the Arishok. That would be like contradicting the qun."

He turned back to collect the jar from the table. "Not to mention it being suicidal for him to even mention you to the Arishok at the moment." Asa gestured with the jar slightly. "I'll need to perform some tests," he said. "If you need anything, call out. If I can't hear you, the karasaad on the other side of the screen will."

Shepard narrowed her eyes. "You're telling me that someone else just heard our entire conversation?"

"Probably, yes."

Her head flopped back against the cushions.

"The universe must absolutely hate me."

**-ooo-**

"I'm here to see the Arishok."

Hawke tried not to feel that she was very, very alone and about to walk into a nest of ox-men.

She was, of course, but she tried very hard not to think about it.

"All are forbidden," the guard on the gate intoned, "except you." He stepped to one side to allow her to pass through the gate. "For now."

Hawke gave him a cordial nod and entered the compound. Her eyes quickly tracked around those areas she could see, searching for some sign of Shepard; dark hair among the white manes, or maybe just a splash of blood on the stones.

There wasn't any.

The Arishok wasn't at his customary bench, but appeared a few minutes after Hawke settled herself at the bottom of the stairs with her hands on her hips, looking expectant.

"Serah Hawke," he rumbled at her.

"Arishok."

The massive ox-man lowered himself to the bench and propped his elbows on his thighs, watching her impassively.

"Where is Shepard?" she demanded, when it became clear that the giant would not be speaking further.

"She is safe," he replied shortly.

Hawke knew that _safe_ was a relative term.

"I want to see her."

"No."

Hawke folded her arms. "I wasn't asking, qunari."

"She is recovering from her illness," the Arishok answered flatly.

"The same illness didn't stop you from taking her from _a healer_," Hawke pointed out. "My visit could hardly worsen her condition."

"No."

Hawke huffed in frustration. "Listen, qunari. What do you think will happen if word gets out that you're holding a prisoner here?"

The Arishok's eyes narrowed. "She is not a prisoner."

"Good," said Hawke. "Then you'll allow me to see her."

The Arishok's jaw bunched dangerously, and Hawke could see he was fighting to keep his temper. But his expression also indicated that he was considering her words. His mission to recover what was stolen from him might certainly be hampered by accusations that the qunari had taken prisoners.

"Fine," he growled stiffly. "You will be taken to the basra."

He gave a short nod to one of the soldiers around his bench, who detached himself from the wall he was leaning against and came down the stairs to Hawke.

"Follow me," he said.

The qunari soldier led Hawke deeper into the compound, to where a tent was pitched against the side of a building. As she pushed through the flaps after her escort, Hawke was surprised to see a few rows of neat cots and bunches of herbs hanging from the roof pole to dry.

Her escort kept going, through the small tent to a wide door in the stone wall. The door opened into a large room that smelled of long deceased fish, but was even more well-scrubbed than Anders' clinic. In one corner stood several screens, blocking whatever was behind them from sight. In front of the screens stood two stone-faced qunari.

Guards.

Hawke felt her chest tighten.

"There," intoned her escort, indicating the screens. "You will speak first with the asa."

Hawke raised her brow. "The asa?"

"He tends to the basra."

Just once, Hawke thought, just once it would be nice for a qunari to answer a question clearly.

But she nodded anyway, and made her way through the fishy-smelling dimness to the screened-off corner.

"Halt," said one of the two qunari standing before the screens.

"The Arishok gave me permission to see Shepard," Hawke informed him.

The kossith gave her a short nod, but his words were, "You will wait."

His partner stepped away from the screens toward a narrow doorway, where he spoke a few words in the qunari tongue, and then returned to his post. A bare minute later, a new figure appeared in the narrow doorway, wiping its hands on a rag. But this figure was neither as tall nor as broad as a kossith, and as he moved out of the doorway and over to the screened area, Hawke was surprised to see that he was human.

"Are you the asa?" she asked curiously.

The man's eyes flickered over her. "I am," he answered. "You must be serah Hawke."

Hawke tilted her head and gave him an inquiring look. "You know who I am?"

A hint of a smile tugged at the man's lips. "Everyone in Kirkwall knows who you are, serah."

Hawke felt herself grin. "Well, maybe," she replied. "Except for that one smith in the Gallows. Although honestly, I think he does, but just pretends not to so he can annoy me."

The man tipped his head. "You are here to see that Shepard is alive and well, no doubt."

"_Why_ is she here?" Hawke asked.

"Because the Arishok requested it," the man answered smoothly.

"But why?"

The man shrugged. "He wishes it. That is reason enough. You may ask him yourself, if you desire more of an answer than that."

Hawke shut her mouth. He might as well have told her to ask a brick wall, and she was sure the man knew it.

He motioned to her to come past the screens.

"She's sleeping right now," he informed her. "But I was going to wake her shortly anyway."

"Shepard," he called, stopping a few feet away from a cot on which a blanketed figure reclined. "Shepard, wake up."

"What?" said an irritated voice. "I'm awake."

"Serah Hawke is here to see you. And I'd like you to have some more broth."

"Hawke?" The figure turned over and pushed the blanket away from her head.

"I'm afraid so," said the rogue lightly. "How are you?"

"Do you really have to ask?" grumbled Shepard. "Four days of rampant seasickness, followed by some kind of magically-induced sedation, and waking up to find myself the reluctant guest of our good friend the Arishok. How do you think I am?"

"Not nearly as pissed off as I thought you'd be," Hawke grinned.

"Just wait," said Shepard darkly. "I'm still a little weak from dehydration and lack of food."

Hawke cast a sidelong glance at Asa, who was giving some instructions to one of the guards. "Do you have any idea why you're here?"

Shepard heaved a very heavy sigh. "Yes. And, before you ask, it's complicated as hell."

The rogue dropped her voice. "Do you need a rescue?"

The Spectre shook her head. "That would only make things worse," she said.

Hawke looked surprised. "You're actually going to… allow this?"

Shepard's eyes flashed dangerously. "Hell, no. I fully intend to walk out of here as soon as I'm able. But," she added, "I doubt that will be the end of it."

"Well," said Hawke doubtfully, "if you're sure."

"If you'd like to try to reason with the Arishok on my behalf, be my guest," Shepard offered.

Hawke set her jaw firmly. "I just did."

"And?"

"Well, it got me in to see you."

Shepard's lips twitched wryly. "Think you can do better?"

Hawke considered. "No."

Shepard nodded. "Yeah. Exactly."

* * *

_A/N: So far behind on NaNo now. Supposed to be at 30k tonight. Hoping instead to break 20k. _

_*sigh*_


	35. Chapter 34

**Chapter Thirty-Four**

Silently as a shadow, Hawke slipped across one of the upper Hightown plazas and into the darkness of a doorway. A moment later she was joined by Isabela, and then by Varric, and finally by Fenris.

She crouched in front of the lock, her fingers cleverly manipulating the thin tools that allowed her to turn the tumblers without the benefit of a key. Although it was nearly pitch dark in the doorway, her movements were sure - lockpicking didn't rely on sight but on feel, and anyway, this lock wasn't particularly challenging. The door swung open with a faint creak.

"So, let me get this straight," whispered Isabela, as they moved through the entry foyer of the DuPuis mansion, "Anders knocked Shepard out so he could carry her without her arguing because she was weak from seasickness - poor pet - and the Arishok shows up and steals her from them?"

"I don't know if steal is the right word, but essentially, yes," answered Hawke, peering cautiously through an open doorway.

"What does the Arishok want with her?" asked Fenris, as they eased into the new room.

"I'm not sure," Hawke answered, her eyes scanning the room quickly. She spotted a chest and headed for it purposefully. "But I think Shepard does."

"I'll admit it's strange," said Varric, as Hawke riffled through the contents. "Up 'til now, it was refreshing to think I knew what the qunari wanted; absolutely nothing."

Hawke shook her head and motioned them to the next door. It opened onto a large hall.

"I have been thinking," said Fenris, a hint of discomfort in his voice.

"Was I naked in your thoughts?" bantered Isabela.

"This may surprise you, but you're not in every one of my thoughts," the elf returned shortly. "I have been thinking what would happen if the qunari were able to reproduce Shepard's weapon."

"You mean make their own?" Hawke replied. "An army of qunari armed with… what does she call it…"

"Garrus?" suggested Isabela, poking through a stack of papers on an elegant Orlesian secretary desk.

"No, not its name."

"Rifle," offered Fenris. "An army of qunari armed with rifles."

"That… would be bad," Varric said dryly.

"Here, Hawke, look at this," Isabela interrupted urgently. "It's some kind of letter or something."

"Letter _or something_?" mocked Varric, but crowded in next to Hawke nevertheless.

"It looks like Gascard's been busy. This note talks about shipments and payments," Isabela offered, with a sour look at the dwarf. "But there's a warning, too, see? About some kind of artifact. I wonder what it could be?"

"Nothing good," shrugged Hawke, scanning the note. "I don't know if Emeric is right about DuPuis being connected to the missing women, but it looks like he's up to _something_."

She tossed the scrap of paper back onto the desk and frowned into space.

"So I suppose we keep going, then, and see if we can dig up anything else?" Varric asked, watching Hawke's face as the rogue nodded absently.

They pushed on, searching through the rest of the ground floor rooms before returning to the hall and the staircases to the upper stories.

"Do you think he could be _right_?" Hawke asked Varric quietly, as Isabela pointed out a painting of a nude woman reclining languidly against a pile of cushions to Fenris.

The dwarf shrugged. "Like you said, it looks like DuPuis is up to _something_. It might be nothing more than some particularly kinky Orlesian bondage, but we won't know unless we find out more."

Hawke waved this away. "I wasn't talking about Emeric," she said. "I was talking about _Fenris_."

"Broody?"

She chewed her bottom lip pensively. "Do you think he's right? About the qunari being interested in copying Shepard's technology?"

Varric raised an eyebrow. "It's certainly possible. Shepard said something of the sort at one point." He frowned. "But how could they? Shepard can't even explain to us how her stuff works without explaining a half a dozen other things first."

"It still worries me," Hawke complained.

Varric sighed. "Me too."

Fenris suddenly sprang backwards with a curse. Thick black fog was rising from the tiled floor and coalescing.

"Venhedis! Shades!"

There were four of the nasty creatures, two blocking each side of the double stairway. They oozed forward and attacked.

Vile as they were, four shades weren't much of a threat to Hawke and her companions, and after a short and nasty fight, the hall was once again quiet.

"Well, I think he knows we're here now," said Isabela ruefully.

"Indeed," added Fenris. "Looks like we're in the right place."

Hawke gave Varric a look and lifted an eyebrow. "Particularly kinky Orlesian bondage?"

Varric spread his hands wide. "Maybe they've gotten kinkier?"

**-ooo-**

"Sebastian? What are you doing here?"

The prince of Starkhaven frowned slightly. Merrill looked tired and wan, her face drawn and paler than normal under her tattoos, with dark circles under her eyes.

"I'm sorry," he apologized, "I did not mean to disturb you, but I have something…" He gave her a questioning look. "May I come in?"

"Elgar'non! Of course," Merrill exclaimed, stepping aside. "Oh, there I go being a terrible hostess again. Can I get you… well, I really don't have anything to offer," she said sheepishly. "I haven't been to the market."

"Thank you for the thought," Sebastian answered with a gentle smile. "But it really isn't necessary."

He reached into the satchel he wore slung over his shoulder and produced several rolls of paper.

"Shepard, Anders and I just got back from exploring some elven ruins near Cumberland," he said. "Shepard was hoping to find… something… that might help her in her search to get home."

He motioned Merrill over and began unrolling one of the sheets. "We didn't find much, but there was a wall with a number of intact inscriptions and pictures on it. I took a rubbing. I thought you might be able to understand some of it."

Merrill quirked her head and peered around his arm at the rubbing. Her eyes grew wide, and she reached out a hand for the sheet. "This is… let me… could I?"

"Shall we roll it out on the table?" Sebastian suggested.

"Yes!" With an excited bounce, Merrill swooped to the table, her eager hands clearing candles and books out of the way.

Sebastian tucked one corner of the paper under a book and stretched it out, tucking the other end under a heavy candle stub. "Here," he said.

"This is amazing," Merrill enthused. "I haven't seen anything like this before!"

"The temple, if it was indeed such, was well preserved. No burials or anything of value, other than to historians and scholars, so it seems to have been left pretty much alone," Sebastian explained. "There were a number of other inscriptions, but most had eroded so badly it was impossible to make out more than a line or two."

"Cumberland?" Merrill asked. "I didn't know there were any settlements of the Elvhenan near there."

"But it is elvish, correct?" Sebastian confirmed, his brow wrinkling.

"Oh yes!" Merrill's eyes hadn't left the paper, and her fingers traced the patterns left there by the charcoal.

"I'm afraid they smudged a bit," Sebastian apologized. "Shall I leave them here with you?"

"Would you?" the girl asked eagerly.

"Of course. If you find anything interesting, be sure to let Shepard know."

"Thank you, Sebastian," Merrill said gravely, tearing her eyes from the charcoal rubbing to look at him. "You have no idea how much things like this mean for my people. We've lost so much of our past."

The prince shifted his weight. "Right then. I'll leave you to it."

But the mage was already reabsorbed in the little bit of history before her.

Quietly, Sebastian let himself out.

**-ooo-**

"Fenris?"

The elven warrior cautiously looked over his shoulder at Hawke, who was holding another scrap of parchment in her hand and wearing a troubled expression.

"Yes, Hawke? What is it?"

"You don't think Shepard would _help_ the qunari make rifles, do you?"

"That isn't what that letter says," chided Isabela, snatching it away from the other rogue and glancing over it.

They were in a large room on the second storey. Possibly originally some kind of ballroom, it was now peppered with tables to no particular use. They'd also just dispatched another, larger group of shades and a rage demon.

It was clear Hawke was taking less than her usual delight in wielding her twin daggers. Her mind was not on the problem posed by Emeric and his disappearances, or on the riddle of Gascard DuPuis. It seemed her thoughts still drifted to the ox-men and their reluctant house guest in the dockside compound.

Fenris frowned slightly. "I do not," he answered softly. "And her willing assistance would hardly necessitate the actions taken by the Arishok to keep her."

The relief was easy to read on Hawke's face.

"This looks like a letter from the Starkhaven Circle. They're telling him off for asking about missing mages," Isabela thrust the parchment back at Hawke.

"The templar said something about DuPuis asking about a mage from Starkhaven, didn't he?" Varric murmured, taking the parchment when it was clear that Hawke was not. He glanced down at it. "They certainly weren't pleased with his interest, were they?"

Hawke shook herself lightly and looked over his shoulder at the letter. She raised an eyebrow. "No, I think it's safe to say they were definitely not pleased." Her brow furrowed. "Is there some sort of training they go through, do you think?"

Varric looked puzzled. "Who? Training for what?"

"People like Bran, or the First Enchanter," Hawke replied. "To learn how to get that tone in their voice. You know the one - it sounds like you're a dead rat they just found in the soup." She shuddered slightly. "It's worse than Mother's _I'm so disappointed in you_ voice."

"It's a letter, Hawke. It doesn't speak."

"Like that matters," the rogue snorted. "You can still hear it."

**-ooo-**

Shepard awoke to the sounds of an argument on the far side of the screens.

She wasn't entirely sure why she'd been asleep in the first place, given the amount of time she'd spent in magically-induced unconsciousness over the past several days, but she suspected that it was to escape the utter boredom of being confined to bed rest.

One of the voices was definitely Asa's. She recognized his tones instantly. The other was deeper, and vastly more irritated.

The Arishok.

They were speaking qunlat, so Shepard had no idea what their words meant, but she was sure as hell they were about her.

After a moment, it appeared that Asa got the upper hand, and the Arishok left. Shepard imagined him stomping away like a petulant child, although she doubted very seriously that his movements were anything less than his usual graceful precision.

Asa appeared around the screens, looking slightly put out. In his hands were several books. He gave Shepard an exasperated glare when he saw that she was awake.

"You have no idea how difficult you've made my life," he told her sourly.

"You're not special in that regard," she replied. "I've made lots of peoples' lives difficult." She quirked an eyebrow at him. "Besides," she added, "technically, it's the Arishok who is making things difficult for you. What did he want, anyway?"

"What do you think?" Asa shot back. "To see you, of course." He hefted the books in his hands. "Ostensibly to give you these."

Shepard made a face. "Let me guess… Kossith Sex for Dummies? Humans are from Earth, Kossith are from Par Vollen?"

Asa looked over the books. "No," he said, slightly surprised. "They're…"

"How the Qun Changed My Life? Deny and Die: The Freedom of the Qun?"

Asa flashed her a look that said _shut up and stop being an idiot_. "One of them is Prayers for the Dead - I told you about it once before. And the others…" Asa held up one. "The biography of a rather famous Nevarran skirmisher - supposed to hold some kind of record in Thedas for the number enemy officers killed." He held up the other. "And this is a short history on ancient sites in the Free Marches - I don't think I've ever seen this one before."

Shepard perked up a little as she took the volumes from Asa. "You know," she said, opening the cover on one of the books, "this is really very thoughtful of him. I've been dying of boredom."

"I know." Two words had never carried such weight.

"Oh, this is nothing," Shepard assured him. "It gets worse. Much worse."

Asa sighed. "Shepard, I'm not letting you get up until I'm satisfied you're fully recovered." He folded his arms on his chest. "No matter how aggravating, obnoxious, and downright rude you become."

"I'll remind you that you said that."

**-ooo-**

"What is this?" Isabela carefully lifted one of the glass vials from the desk. "It's too thick and opaque to be an elfroot potion."

Hawke finished searching through a chest and came to the desk. It was littered with vials of every size and description, all tightly stoppered and filled with a deep red liquid. As Isabela had indicated, there was a certain viscosity to the liquid, and it was completely opaque when Hawke held a vial to the light.

"I don't know," she admitted.

"I do," said Fenris in a harsh rasp. "It is blood."

Both women nearly dropped the vials in their haste to discard them. Hawke wiped her fingers against her thigh almost subconsciously. "Are you sure?" she asked.

"The magisters often store it like that. I've heard that your templars also store the blood of the Circle mages."

"Phylacteries…" Hawke breathed. "But why would DuPuis have phylacteries?"

"Because he's a blood mage?" Varric suggested.

"What?" he added, when the others' eyes landed on him. "I think it's pretty obvious by now that we're not talking _any_ sort of kinky Orlesian bondage here." His brow wrinkled. "Unless Orlesian blood mages have some sort of special slap-and-tickle they engage in."

The faces of all four immediately crinkled in some version of disgust, including Varric's. "Forget I said that," he said ruefully. "That wasn't a picture I needed in my head. Especially not with the, uh, garments in the last chest we found."

"Varric!"

"Sorry, sorry," the dwarf waved his hands defensively. "It's in _my_ head, too. Curse my storyteller's imagination!"

"What should we do?" Hawke asked. "Even if he's not connected to the missing women - which," she hastened to say, "is becoming less and less of a possibility - how do we convince the Viscount's office that they need to reopen the investigation?"

"Lady Man-Hands will believe us," Isabela stated confidently. "What else do you need?"

Hawke frowned. "I don't know. Yes, Aveline will believe us, but Bran won't. And you read that apology Meredith sent DuPuis. She isn't going to believe us either."

Varric shrugged. "Take one of the… things then. They'll believe that." He snorted. "Embarrassed as she was, Meredith will always get worked up over a blood mage."

At Hawke's faintly nauseated look, he added, "Figuratively, I meant."

"Just stop." The rogue held up her hands. "Don't make it any worse."

With a grim scowl, Hawke selected one of the smallest vials and tucked it into a pouch. "I can't believe I'm doing this," she muttered. "Aveline owes me."

"Hawke," Varric pointed out, "you do realize that any given day of the week, you can be found splattered with the blood of various unfortunate creatures who got in the way of your daggers, don't you?"

"It's not the same," she replied primly. "It's not as if I'm saving it for later…"

"Well, no," Varric admitted. "And it's not contained neatly in a little glass bottle, either."

"It's not the same," Hawke repeated stubbornly.

Varric shook his head.

"If you say so."

**-ooo-**

"You should be sleeping, Shepard," Asa's voice was chiding as he emerged from his small laboratory.

Shepard looked up from the book that lay open across her knees and removed the lock of hair she was nibbling from between her teeth. "I've been sleeping for days, Asa," she retorted. "Besides, it's a good book."

"Plotting another trip out of Kirkwall to study ruins?" Asa asked tartly. "I hope, for your sake, you don't intend to travel by sea."

"What?" Shepard's brows drew downward in confusion and then jumped as she made the connection. "Oh, no. I haven't started the book on ancient sites in the Free Marches yet. This is the biography of Lachlan Rosse."

She gestured at the pages before her. "It's fascinating, really. He was classified as a scout in a skirmishing battalion, and he was best known for - as you said - taking out enemy officers from cover, at a distance. He was a goddamn infiltrator, a sniper, before you people even figured out that sometimes rigid formations aren't the best battlefield tactics after all."

Shepard pursed her lips. "He also sounds like one hell of an asshole," she added. She smiled a little wistfully. "To tell you the truth, he sort of reminds me of a merc I had on my team for a while. Not his skills - Zaaed sure as hell wasn't an infiltrator - but his attitude. That sort of inglorious bastard-ness."

"I have heard that he was something of an embarrassment to the Nevarrans," Asa admitted. "It was one thing to do what he did, and be good at it - his was a necessary, if distasteful, duty. It was another to boast about it afterward. The Nevarrans are big on military honor and glory, and, as you say, it is somewhat inglorious to hide in some bushes a hundred yards away and shoot an enemy's general in the back."

"You're coming dangerously close to offending me," said Shepard with a mock scowl. "Besides, there's nothing honorable or glorious about soldiering, or war."

Asa pulled up a stool and sat on it. "A strange sentiment from a military commander," he noted.

Shepard rolled her eyes. "One of a soldier's jobs is to kill people, Asa. There's never anything honorable or glorious about killing people. Necessary, maybe. For the greater good, maybe. Hell, maybe even it's even satisfying, if the person doing the dying is a big enough asshole. But that still doesn't make it honorable or glorious."

"You don't feel _any_ sense of honor in your role?" Asa asked curiously.

Shepard hummed and shook her head. "Not _honor,_ no," she replied. "There are others who do, of course. I've just never bought into it. Not with what I've seen. Not with what I've done." She paused, her expression bleak. "But even if being a marine is sometimes a dirty job, it's also an important one. I suppose you could say I feel pride."

"You feel pride in a role you find no honor in? Or simply pride in your performance?"

Shepard seemed to give this some thought. "Both, actually. Yes, I'm proud to be a marine. Not because there's honor or glory in it, but because it's a job that needs doing, and it takes a certain kind of person to be willing to die as part of their job description. We fight and die so that others don't have to. I'm proud of that."

"And I'm also proud of who I am, and - for the most part - of the job I've done as a marine. Setting humility aside, I'm a helluva soldier, and I've worked very hard to get there."

The healer gave her a thoughtful look. "You are a very complex person, basra."

Shepard laughed. "I'm a woman, Asa," she teased.

"That does figure largely in the complexity," he agreed with a straight face.

"You know," Shepard said after a moment, tapping the edge of the volume's heavy cover, "I really should thank the Arishok for this. He did a good job picking out a book he thought I'd enjoy."

"Yes," said the healer, and there was an odd note in his voice. "He did."

Shepard's eyes narrowed. "Okay. What's wrong _this_ time?"

"It is simply… out of character for him," Asa admitted. "He has already allowed you some access to his library. To hand-select volumes for you… It has no purpose."

"He loaned me his copy of the Cantos to study," Shepard told him with a lift of her brows. "How is this any different?"

"That was the qun. This is not."

Shepard let her head fall back against the cushions with a groan. "Is it possible for us to have a conversation without some sort of bald statement involving the qun?"

A faint smile curved Asa's lips. "Probably not," he conceded.

Shepard lifted her head. "Well, at least you're honest about it."

She gave him a curious look. "Do you ever regret it?"

"Regret what?"

"Converting. I assume that you were an adult when the bandit attack occurred and you found yourself among the qunari."

"I was indeed."

"And you don't regret the life you left behind?"

"Not at all."

"Didn't you have a family? People you cared about?" Shepard demanded, and then stopped, flushing deeply.

"I'm sorry," she apologized. "That… I didn't mean to ask such a personal question."

"Yet you are curious."

"Well, yes. I mean, it doesn't sound like you sought out the qunari with the express intention of converting to the qun." She frowned slightly. "Or did you?"

Asa shook his head. "No. I did not. I was searching for a particularly hard-to-find plant with the intention of collecting a few specimens and trying to cultivate them."

"Were you a healer then? Or a farmer?"

"I fancied myself a healer, yes. Much to the irritation of the local women, who believed that herbcraft was their province, and a man should keep himself well out of such things."

"So what changed?" Shepard asked pointedly. "How did you go from being someone who rebelled against society's dictates to being a dutiful cog in the machine?"

"Cog in the machine?" Asa wondered.

"The qun," Shepard answered. "It's like society as a machine. Every person a little cog."

"Machines are not alive. The qun is."

Shepard acknowledged this with a wave of her hand. "Not… well… okay. A cell in the body, then."

Asa seemed to choose his words carefully. "There is a beautiful logic in the qun," he said. "I found its principles spoke to me."

"Certainty?" Shepard asked with a quirk of her eyebrow.

"No," Asa replied, "it was not the certainty of the qun that drew me. It was the idea that all are part of the whole, something I had seen again and again in my studies, and that knowledge of the self is knowledge of the whole."

"_Know thyself_, hmm?" Shepard frowned. "I… admit that there's something attractive about the kind of self awareness the Askaari hints at. But how can he go on about it without acknowledging the place of self-growth and the evolution of the individual? People have to have the ability to change over time, but the qun doesn't seem big on change of any sort. It doesn't make sense."

"You have not been studying the qun for long," Asa said with a shrug. "And without the benefit of one whose role is to guide you. You will come to understand it more fully in time."

"For the last time, I'm not a convert, and have no intention of becoming a convert," Shepard stated flatly. "I am studying the qun in order to _try_ to understand your people. Not that it's been all that much of a help, really."

"Hasn't it?" Asa asked. "If not, then perhaps you haven't yet begun to open your eyes."

Shepard gave the healer a level stare.

"You're starting to annoy me nearly as much as he does, you know that?"

**-ooo-**

"Shit," said the man, as he looked from the terrified woman to Hawke's party and back. "I… I know what this looks like, but I didn't hurt her!"

"Help me, please!" cried the woman in a nasal whine. "He's gone mad!"

Hawke exchanged glances with the others.

Gascard DuPuis straightened up and turned to face them. He was a young man, with a long, lean face and shoulder length chestnut hair held back from his face by thin braids. His voice held the unmistakable sound of Orlais, though he spoke common fluently and idiomatically.

"I don't know why you are here, but there is a killer out there, and I think he is playing us both."

The rogue folded her arms on her chest, and gave the man an even look.

"Just… just let me explain," DuPuis stammered.

"All right," Hawke said dryly. "We'll see if you can talk yourself out of this."

"Twenty silver if he says, _'It wasn't me, it was the one-armed man!'_" Varric murmured to her.

"Fifty if he produces a glove that doesn't fit," murmured Fenris in response.

There were no ill-fitting gloves or one-armed men in the tale Gascard told. Instead he talked about lilies, and about a monster of a man who preyed on socially isolated women, killing them in some dark blood magic ritual for Maker knew what purpose.

DuPuis sister had been one of the killer's victims.

It was clear as he spoke that Gascard DuPuis was driven to find the man responsible for his sister's death and exact a slow revenge. "This isn't about justice," he said, eyes burning with a fearful desire, "I need to be the one to bleed him dry."

Later, as they watched the apostate leave, Varric turned to Hawke with a doubtful look in his eye.

"Do you think it was a good idea to just let him go like that?"

"Is it ever a good idea to let a mage walk free?" growled Fenris.

Hawke shrugged. "I know where to find him."

Isabela snorted. "Do you really think he's stupid enough to tell you where he's going to be hiding?"

"He wants to find the killer very badly," Fenris replied thoughtfully. "Enough that I think he'd risk doing just that, if he thought Hawke might bring him information that will help him."

They left the manor. As they passed the door to Fenris' borrowed estate, the elf paused. "I will keep an eye on the place in any event, Hawke. I do not think the mage will return until this is over, but I could be wrong."

"Thank you, Fenris," Hawke said with sincerity. "And keep an eye out for yourself as well, please. There's something not quite right about Gascard DuPuis, and I wouldn't like him to decide to try to remove the competition for his prize."

"Indeed," nodded Fenris shortly, and disappeared into his dilapidated home.

"Ah," said Varric as he watched the elf's retreating form. "So you found something funny about the Orlesian dandy's story as well, did you?"

Hawke shook her head vaguely. "I don't know, Varric. Something just feels wrong."

"Well," said Isabela, "_I_ think he's a loony."

"But an attractive one?" suggested Varric slyly.

Isabela thought about this.

"No. Just a loony."

**-ooo-**

"Think of it as retribution for having to deal with you as a patient," Asa told her. "Or, perhaps, simply think about it."

Shepard held up her hands. "Don't. Start. Philosophizing."

"You started it," he replied easily.

Shepard relaxed. "That's better," she said with satisfaction. She cocked her head. "You never answered my question," she prompted.

"Did I not?" The healer looked surprised.

"Not the personal one."

Asa gave her a serene look. "All questions are personal or none are, basra."

Shepard scowled. "What's the weather like today?" she asked snidely. "And how are you hung?" She looked questioningly at the healer. "Are they both personal, or are neither?"

To her surprise, Asa laughed. "Were you born argumentative, Shepard?"

"Probably. Are you evading my question? If you don't want to answer, tell me to mind my own fucking business."

"No," he answered, a smile still on his lips. "I think I was merely baiting you."

He took a breath and let it out. "You wanted to know if I had family, friends, people that I cared for, that I left behind when I answered the demand of the qun."

"Yes."

His hazel eyes gazed at her levelly. "I did."

"But you didn't regret leaving them?"

"I haven't left them. They are part of the whole, as am I. They simply lack understanding, as do you."

Shepard glared at him. "That's a bullshit answer if I ever heard one," she growled. "So how about this - did you miss them? Think about them? Wonder what they were doing at a particular moment?"

"Of course."

A haunted look crept into Shepard's eyes. "Didn't it hurt?" she demanded.

Asa regarded her silently, noting her expression and filing it away for later contemplation. "Sometimes," he admitted.

"But you never went back?"

"No."

Shepard was quiet for several moments. "Do they know you're still alive?" she asked. "That you didn't die at the end of some bandit's dirty blade?"

"I corresponded with my mother a few times before she passed away," Asa said, shifting position. He seemed slightly guilty about this revelation. "Family ties are not encouraged among the viddathari," he explained shortly.

"Of course not," Shepard scoffed. "Love isn't something the qun encourages. It makes people harder to control."

"And a cynic, too," the healer noted.

"_Realist_."

"That would imply you have an understanding of reality."

"Oooh, ouch," replied Shepard sarcastically.

Asa rolled his eyes. "Did you wish for me to answer your other questions as well?"

"What other questions?"

The healer maintained a perfectly deadpan expression. "Regarding the weather and my anatomy."

For half a moment, Shepard looked shocked. Then she grinned.

"Is flirting allowed in the qun?"

"Flirting?" Asa lifted an eyebrow. "I was merely attempting to ascertain whether your curiosity has been satisfied for this evening."

"Not by a long shot, no."

"Oh? Well, then. It is currently slightly cloudy, with a brisk breeze coming off the Waking Sea. And my…"

"I'm good, I'm good!" Shepard waved her hands at him wildly. "Enough answers for tonight!"

Asa smiled to himself. "Are you sure?"

"Positive!"


	36. Chapter 35

"What note?" Hawke demanded, staring at the woman wearing the full plate of the templars. "I didn't send a note."

She turned to Varric. "Did you send a note?"

Varric shook his head. "I didn't send a note."

She transferred her gaze to Fenris. "Did you send a note?"

"I can barely read."

All three of them turned to look at Isabela, who was staring off into middle distance, lower lip thrust out slightly in thought.

"Isabela?"

"Rivaini?"

The pirate blinked rapidly. "Hmm?" she murmured. "What?"

"Note?" asked Hawke, pointedly.

Isabela looked blank. "What note?"

Hawke nodded and turned back to Moira. "It wasn't us. What did this note say, exactly?"

The templar gaped at her. "It instructed Ser Emeric to meet you in a certain place at a certain time."

"Yeesss," Hawke drew the word out slowly. "I get that. But where?"

"In the second courtyard off the back alley to the west of the Lowtown bazaar," Moira offered.

"The one with the vultures?"

"They're pelicans, Hawke," Varric corrected.

"Aren't they cormorants?" Fenris' brow crinkled.

Moira frowned as well. "I always thought they were herons."

Isabela huffed. "They're Waking Sea albatross," she instructed sharply. "You can tell by the way their beaks…"

"Yeah," Hawke interrupted. "Let's get over there right away."

"I have a very bad feeling about this."

**-ooo-**

The look Asa was giving her was priceless.

"I don't understand it," he complained. "Yesterday, the specific gravity of your urine was… well… and the protein content… it was practically…"

He glared at her. "And today it's nearly normal. How is that possible?"

Shepard gave him a smug smile. "I guess Cerberus is getting their money's worth, after all," she said. "Not that the Illusive Man is in any position to appreciate it."

Her smile stretched slightly. It wasn't particularly nice. "Although I think he probably wished he'd gone with the value pricing, after I told him off and blew up the Collector base. And wished he hadn't bothered at all when I shot his fucking head off."

Asa's scowl deepened. "What are you talking about?"

"Implants," Shepard replied simply. "Remember, I was telling you about them when you asked about these," she lifted her fingers to one cheek, where there were still a few faint scars. "They help me heal faster."

She dropped her hand to her lap and watched as her fingers flexed. "The people who did that to me - who put me back together again after I was…" she paused, "…anyway, they spent a lot of money doing it. The man who ordered it - the Illusive Man, he was called - he and I didn't see eye to eye on, well, almost anything, and we parted ways not long after."

Her smile turned grim. "It wasn't exactly amicable. He's dead now."

Asa folded his arms on his chest. "That doesn't explain how your kidneys went from compromised to mildly stressed in a single day!"

"I told you," Shepard repeated. "The implants help me heal faster."

"That's just not possible," the healer insisted.

"Not here, no," Shepard acknowledged. "The technology doesn't exist. But where I come from…"

"Where _do_ you come from, Shepard?!" Asa demanded.

"A very long way away," she answered evasively. "Telling you exactly where wouldn't mean anything to you, trust me."

"Oh?" the hazel eyes narrowed. "Give it a try, won't you?"

Shepard gave him a level look.

"All right," she said after a moment. "I was born and grew up in California. I completed my basic training in Texas, my advanced training in Brazil. My ship and I were based out of Vancouver, in British Colombia." She raised an eyebrow. "Helpful?"

The healer frowned and gave a loud exhale. "No."

"Told you."

**-ooo-**

Emeric was dead.

There was no doubt about the still corpse, or about the abominations that hovered over it.

Hawke and her companions plowed into the creatures, which were almost immediately joined by a half dozen shades and a desire demon.

Varric was quickly backed into a corner, trying desperately to fend off shades and the abominations with his boot and the bayonet mounted to Bianca's stock. Leaving Isabela and Fenris to deal with the desire demon, Hawke vaulted over a shade and struck at the nearest abomination's back. When she succeeded in drawing the monster's attention, Varric darted free, already turning to fire into the fray that now centered on the red-haired rogue.

"Somebody order a shot to the face?" he cried.

"Varric!"

"Sorry, Hawke. I think Bianca may have gotten… come on, baby, don't die on me!"

"I'm not planning on dying, Varric," Hawke yelled. "Unless you shoot me!"

"I wasn't…" the dwarf began, and then let loose an anguished wail. "Bianca!"

"Dwarf!" shouted Fenris. "Are you injured?!"

"The bastards got Bianca!" Varric ranted.

The rest of the fighting was furious, especially on the part of the dwarf, who drew a dagger from his belt and laid into the nearest shade like… like… a dwarf who'd just had his beloved crossbow damaged. As the last abomination shrieked defiance and crumpled back to the earth, Moira and a detachment of three templars came rushing into the courtyard.

"Hrmph," snorted Varric. "Figures they'd show up now."

"Poor old sod," said Isabela sadly, looking down at Emeric's corpse. "I don't suppose that's the way he'd have wanted to go."

"No," agreed Hawke. "I rather think he'd have preferred not to go at all."

Moira was staring at the corpse in stunned disbelief. "Some mage sent that thing here to kill him," she said. "Why would anyone…"

She dropped her head and raised a hand to her temple. "Oh, Maker," she uttered incredulously, "the _murders_. Emeric was right! He was getting too close." The templar raised her head and looked at Hawke. "He suspected a man named Gascard DuPuis. Do you think he did this?"

"What do you think about letting the mage go now, Hawke?" murmured Fenris.

Hawke shook her head. "Gascard is part of this, but only a part. And we killed all his toys when we sprang his trap for the killer, remember? He was considerably upset about it. The bitterness in his voice could have soured sweet milk."

"There is a dangerous mage loose in the city?" Moira gasped. "The Knight-Commander will want him hunted immediately."

"Find a woman named Alessa," Hawke suggested. "I don't know her family name, but I suspect she's from Hightown. Gascard believed she would be the killer's next victim and was using her as bait to lure the killer to him, but she escaped. Both he and the killer will probably be looking for her."

The templar dipped her head. "Thank you for the information, serah Hawke."

"The guard will help you in your search for Alessa, I expect," Hawke added. "I'll go see the Guard-Captain right away."

Moira nodded again and she and her detachment rushed off once more.

"Why didn't you tell them that Gascard was in Darktown?" Isabela demanded.

Hawke shrugged. "It's more important that they find Alessa," she said. "I think she probably went straight to the guard, but if she didn't, she's in danger. Gascard can be dealt with later."

"Aveline will not be pleased that you handed her investigation to the templars," Fenris warned.

"Aveline is smart. She'll figure out a way to make it work to her advantage."

Varric hadn't uttered a word in the conversation. His head was bent over his crossbow, and his fingers were gently stroking the polished wood as he murmured soothing words.

Hawke looked at him and sighed. "But I think Varric will have to stay behind. Clearly, Bianca needs him."

"Ohh," said Isabela, sympathy written all over her face, "he's _hurting_. I'll take him back to the Hanged Man and buy him a drink or two."

"I'll drop by the Chantry and send Sebastian down to give him a hand with Bianca," Hawke told her, exasperation mingling with pity in her expression. "Try not to let him get too drunk, all right? Otherwise he'll start accusing Sebastian of fondling Bianca's cocking ring again, and we all know how_ that_ ends."

**-ooo-**

"Come on, Asa!" Shepard exclaimed. "It's not as if it's the other side of the moon!"

"Absolutely not."

"You said my kidneys were working fine," she pointed out.

"I said they were no longer compromised," he corrected. "You still need monitoring, and I am not about to let you go charging off."

"It's a bath, Asa, not a battle."

The healer glared at her and drummed his fingers where they rested against his folded arms.

"Please?" Shepard wheedled. "I haven't bathed in a over a week, Asa! I promise I won't do anything more strenuous than soaping, and I'll take a nice long rest in one of the soaking tubs afterward…"

Shepard's expression grew seriously wistful at the mention of soaking tubs.

Asa relented.

"Fine," he said sternly. "But you will be escorted to and from the baths, and you are not to use the opportunity to attempt to escape the compound, you hear me?"

Shepard pulled a look of mock indignation. "I would never!"

"You would so," Asa corrected. "And we both know it."

_Perceptive bastard._

Shepard waved this away and threw the blanket back, swinging her legs off the cot and getting to her feet with a speed that earned her a scowl from the healer. Asa stepped around the screen briefly to give one of Shepard's guards his new orders.

A few minutes later, she was headed purposefully toward the bathing area she'd used once before. As her stride stretched eagerly, her escort reached out a taloned hand and grasped her arm.

"Slowly, basra. The asa instructs that you are to move slowly."

Obediently, Shepard curbed her impatience and slowed her pace. She had to admit, she _was_ still weak.

_Well, of course you're weak, Shepard. The only food you've had - if you can call it food - is a few bowls of broth. Tasty broth, but probably not the kind of calories this built-by-Cerberus body of yours requires_.

When Shepard reached the baths, she grabbed two buckets to fill at the hot water boilers, but her escort stopped her before she'd managed to start filling the first.

"You are not to strain yourself, basra," he chastised, taking the buckets from her. "Go. I will bring them to you."

Shepard opened her mouth to argue, and then thought better about it. After all, in a minute she was going to be naked, and it probably wasn't a wise idea to do the kossith equivalent of flirting beforehand.

She selected some towels and a jar of soap, claimed an available bathing station, and was skinning out of her clothes faster than a randy teenager on prom night.

Her escort brought her two full buckets of steaming water and set them on the bench with a word of caution. "The water is hot," he said seriously. "Do not burn yourself."

Shepard squinted at him, trying to determine if he was cracking one of the subtle qunari jokes. He was probably higher ranked than a karasaad, but not a sten, and he had light blue eyes - the first she'd seen.

Still uncertain about his words, she adopted a similarly deadpan expression and replied. "Thank you for warning me. I will be extra careful."

The kossith nodded and added, "I will assist you if necessary."

"Thanks," Shepard said quickly, "but I think I've got it from here." _After all, I've got years of experience washing myself._

"As you wish, basra," said the qunari, and withdrew slightly.

Shepard quickly doused herself with the first bucket, reveling in the feeling of water on her skin, and lathered herself thoroughly. Getting clean was a wonderful thing, but Shepard was just itching to get into one of the large tubs and have a long, hot soak.

She sluiced off the soap with the second bucket and made a beeline for the nearest of the tubs, smiling gratefully at the elf tending the firebox beneath it.

The water inside was not as hot as she'd imagined, and for a moment Shepard was disappointed. But as she lowered herself neck-deep and the warmth hit abdominals still sore from days of retching, she let out an appreciative sigh. She let her head fall back against the wood and closed her eyes as months of tension seemed to ebb out of her.

For the first time since she'd woken up in a sewer, Shepard truly understood, with crystal clarity, that the purpose that had driven her life - and death - for the past three years had finally ended.

_The Reapers are dead. _

_Okay, so I'm stuck god-knows-where with little to no chance of ever seeing the Earth again, let alone the Normandy, and I've got a giant horned humanoid who wants to mate with me, but it's all over. _

_The Reapers are dead. _

_The Earth may be in ruins, and the other homeworlds, too - although it would be hard to tell with Tuchanka - but cities can be rebuilt. There is peace between the geth and the quarians, and the krogan have stable, forward-thinking leadership and a cure for the genophage, and hey, most of the politicians are probably dead, so the galaxy might have a future to look forward to. It's all over._

_The Reapers are dead._

Shepard took a deep breath and let herself slide slowly under the water, ears gonging as water filled them. There was the softest of tugs as strands of her hair floated gently away from her scalp, and she felt as though her thoughts were doing the same, unraveling and drifting away, leaving her with a sense of blissful emptiness.

Until a large hand yanked her out of the water, spluttering and streaming.

"The hell?!" Shepard managed, blinking water out of her eyes.

"Do you seek to drown yourself, basra?!" demanded a deep voice.

"I was _relaxing_, you dumbass!" she retorted, just as the identity of the voice hit her.

The Arishok.

_What did James used to say in situations like this? Madre de dios?_

Forcing away the sudden urge to attempt to cover her nakedness with the single hand available to her, Shepard gritted her teeth and struggled to keep her voice level.

"Can I have my arm back now?"

For the skin of a second, she thought he was going to refuse. Reluctantly, he released his grip on her wrist. Although his eyes were on her face, Shepard was certain the giant was well aware of her naked body, and could probably tell anyone who asked the exact number of freckles covering her torso. She subsided back into the water, for what little modesty it provided.

"How can one relax without breath?" the Arishok asked pointedly.

"It's peaceful under the water," she replied. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

The Arishok's answer was to turn things back on Shepard.

"You are ill. You should be resting."

"I _was_ resting," Shepard said, a trifle sharply. "Resting and relaxing in this nice warm water. And then I was _interrupted_."

If she had intended to make him feel guilty, she shouldn't have bothered.

"I will return you to the asa," the Arishok said abruptly. "Come."

"I'm not finished here."

The Arishok folded his massive arms on his even more massive chest. He didn't need to speak. His posture said it all.

"No," Shepard insisted. "I'm not leaving until I'm a prune."

The giant raised a brow at this. "A prune?"

Shepard turned in the water so that her back was facing the Arishok. Partly to signal her intention to stay and soak, and partly out of a lingering discomfort at the thought of being buck naked in front of someone who had voiced his clear intention to mate with her.

"You know… if you stay in water long enough, your skin wrinkles? Like a raisin, or a prune."

"Why would you do this?" Although she couldn't see his expression, she heard it; the brows drawing down over the nose in a mixture of disgust and puzzlement at the incomprehensible actions of the bas.

"Because the water feels nice."

"So you would stay until your skin becomes damaged?"

Shepard looked over her shoulder at him. "It's not permanent," she said defensively. "It smooths out again."

The Arishok made a noise between a huff and a snort, indicating his opinion on the matter.

They were quiet as Shepard tried to regain her earlier state of inner harmony and failed.

"Thank you for the books, by the way," she said awkwardly. "That was thoughtful of you."

"They were to your satisfaction?"

"I finished the one on Lachlan Rosse this morning. It was very good."

The Arishok made a rumbling noise. "You are welcome," he said, a trifle stiffly.

The silence fell again. Shepard tried closing her eyes and letting her head rest against the wood again, inhaling the soft steam from the water and imagining it relaxing her from the inside out, but couldn't escape the knowledge that the Arishok was standing just a few feet away. She sighed.

"All right," she said with resignation, "go get me my towels. They're on that bench over there," she gestured in a vague direction to her right without turning around.

The massive creature strode over to the bench and retrieved the towels, offering them to Shepard with one hand.

"Turn around," Shepard instructed as she took them from him. "I'm not giving you more of an eyeful than you've already gotten."

There was a rumble of protest from the Arishok, but he nevertheless complied.

Shepard clambered out of the soaking tub and squeezed the water out of her dark hair with one hand before toweling herself off quickly, shivering a little as the cooler air hit her water-warmed skin. She finished by vigorously toweling her hair, and realized that there was no way for the small scraps of cloth to cover her the way a normal towel would.

"Close your eyes," she grumbled at the Arishok. "I'm going to go get dressed."

The Arishok gave an irritated huff. "Is this necessary?"

"Yes," Shepard snapped.

"There are others present. Do you require them to shut their eyes as well?"

"None of them have announced their intention to mate with me," she retorted, edging past the giant and glancing up to be sure his golden eyes were indeed closed.

"That is good," stated the Arishok, with what might have been a hint of satisfaction.

"You're telling me…" muttered Shepard, under her breath. She hurried to her discarded clothing and pulled it on.

"You can open your eyes now," she said. She looked around. "And where is my guard? You know, the tall one with the blue eyes?"

"I dismissed him," answered the Arishok, moving silently up behind her.

Shepard gave him a wry look. "Asa's going to yell at you. That guard was supposed to make sure I don't exert myself in any way, like, say, blowing my nose or combing my hair."

"I can ensure you do not exert yourself," the Arishok replied, stepping close and reaching forward.

Shepard stopped him with a firm hand on his chest. "No you don't," she warned. "I was being sarcastic," she added. At the giant's lingering expression she clarified. "I got proper clearance to walk to the baths and back. I do not need to be carried like an infant."

She held up her other hand quickly. "And no comments about how I maybe shouldn't act like one, please. That would be so predictable."

"I said nothing, basra."

"Good."

**-ooo-**

"Aveline!" smiled Hawke, a trifle stiffly. "How is my favorite Guard-Captain today?"

The tall woman glanced up from her desk. "What is it now, Hawke?" she asked with a hint of a sigh.

"I have some good news, and some bad news," Hawke said. "Which would you like first?"

Aveline pushed off the desk and straighted up. "Just tell me what's wrong, with as little embellishment as possible, if you could."

"Aveline," said Hawke with a mock pout, "I'm hurt."

Aveline's eyes narrowed. "Out with it, Hawke."

"Well, you won't have to worry about Emeric riling people up any longer," Hawke told her.

The captain's ginger brows rose.

"He's dead," said Fenris.

"Dead?" Aveline frowned. "Hawke…"

Hawke held up both hands. "It wasn't me," she said hastily.

"And the good news?" asked Aveline.

"That _was_ the good news," Hawke said apologetically. "The bad news is that there's a killer loose in Kirkwall."

Hawke paused and considered this. "Well, honestly, there are a lot of killers loose in Kirkwall. Carta, Coterie, independent thieves that take their muggings a little too seriously… But this one sounds like a real gem. He targets women and kills them in some kind of blood magic ritual."

"Emeric wasn't just some lyrium-addled old fart, after all," Aveline said with a shake of her head. "And this Gascard DuPuis he was so sure was the killer?" she asked. "Were you able to find any evidence against him?"

Hawke shrugged. "Gascard DuPuis is involved in this, but only peripherally," she said. "His sister was one of the killer's previous victims. He's out for revenge. But… there's this, too," she reached in her pouch and withdrew the vial she had taken from Gascard's study. "It's blood. A phylactery, I think."

Aveline raised a hand to her forehead and rubbed the crease that had formed there. "All right," she said finally. "Anything else?"

"The templars are looking for a woman named Alessa - I think she's from Hightown. Graying hair, pale complexion, whiny voice. Gascard believed she was the killer's next victim. Have you seen her?"

Aveline gave Hawke the kind of look that she seemed to reserve for those times when Hawke was being exceptionally Hawke-ish. "No. Should I?"

"I didn't mean personally," Hawke explained. "I meant has she come to the guard? Gascard was using her as bait for the killer. She escaped when I was talking with him. I assumed she would come straight here."

"I haven't seen a report, and I would think that the name DuPuis would put my men on alert." She scowled. "The Viscount's office wasn't too pleased with the outcome of our last investigation of the man. They spread it around with a trowel."

Hawke nodded. "I saw the apology Meredith wrote him when I was checking out his estate. It must have burned like Andraste's pyre for her to pen it."

The rogue pursed her lips, and her brows drew downward. "I have to admit that I'm surprised Alessa didn't come to the guard."

"Do you know her family name at all?" Aveline asked.

"No," Hawke answered, her frown deepening. "I don't like it, Aveline. I think you might want to get your men out searching right away. This… could be bad."

"You can say that again," Aveline said with feeling.

**-ooo-**

Shepard walked back to the infirmary with the brooding bulk of the Arishok stalking next to her.

"Your body is not unattractive," he said abruptly, apropos of nothing at all.

Shepard stopped and turned to face him. "What?" she asked incredulously.

"Your body," the Arishok repeated. "It is not unattractive. You have many scars, from many battles."

Shepard was not sure which part of this she was more shocked by; the comment about her body, or the one about her scars. As such, her brain spun with the effort of deciding which to respond to, and therefore which emotional reaction should dominate; anger, or curiosity.

"I… you… Wait…you actually don't think my scars came from mating?"

_Aaannd, curiosity wins the day_.

"You are a warrior," he answered simply. "You have seen battle. No one could believe otherwise."

"Damn right I have," she acknowledged. "More than you can imagine."

The Arishok raised a brow, but did not argue the point.

"But why comment about my body?" she added. "Were you _trying_ to piss me off?"

At this the giant looked surprised. "Is it not customary for human bas to compliment a mate?"

"That was supposed to be a _compliment_?" Shepard demanded. "And I'm _not_ your mate."

"It was a compliment," he said evenly.

Shepard waited for the inevitable _and you will be my mate_, but it didn't come. Instead, the giant continued his graceful stalk.

"Come, basra," he said to her. "You have been out of the asa's care long enough."

"Not unattractive?" Shepard grimaced, taking a skip-step to catch up with him. "_That_ was a compliment?"

"Yes."

"Not unattractive?"

"It is true," the Arishok said placidly. "Your form is not displeasing to the eye."

"Not displeasing to the eye?" Shepard snorted with suppressed laughter. "Really? Why not say I'm not completely ugly while you're at it?"

"That is also true."

Shepard's shoulders began to shake, and she had to stop and lean against a wall as the laughter poured out of her.

"What is it now, basra?"

"I can't believe this," Shepard gasped, wiping at her eyes. "You really suck at compliments, you know that?"

"They are unnecessary."

"Here's a tip," she told him, still chuckling. "You might want to, I don't know… read some poetry or something before you try it again."

"I will consider your suggestion."

"Please do."

**-ooo-**

Hawke and Fenris did their best to give Aveline an accurate description of Alessa, which she then distributed to her patrols with instructions to canvass the city and to hit up contacts and informants and people who always seemed to know a little more about things than they rightly should. She herself took the far harder job of visiting the Seneschal and informing the Viscount's office.

Hawke left her to it. There was still no love lost between her and the Seneschal, and to compound matters, she hadn't been able to look Bran in the face without thinking about Isabela's friend fiction. All things considered, Hawke would rather not visit the Viscount's Office any more than strictly necessary. Instead, with Fenris in tow, she struck out for Darktown.

Gascard was disturbingly easy to find, lounging near one of the ubiquitous campfires not far from Anders' clinic.

"Care to tell me where I might find Alessa?" Hawke asked him without preamble.

The orlesian shrugged. "If she has not gone to the city guard the killer will have her." He pushed off the wall and paced a few steps. "I would help you to find her, if I had her phylactery. But the templars are all over Hightown, and I can no longer access the notes or phylacteries in my study." This last was said with a hint of bitterness and accusation.

"Where does she live?" Hawke pressed.

"She has a very small estate on the southeastern edge of Hightown," Gascard replied. "But as I say, I doubt you will find her there." Once again his brown eyes burned with a zealous gleam. "You do not understand the killer as I do. He is intelligent, clever, and ruthlessly driven. He cares for nothing and no-one apart from his own goals."

"He sounds like a madman," Hawke said flatly.

"Perhaps," Gascard acknowledged. "Genius and madness are often intertwined."

"You sound almost as if you admire him," Fenris noted.

"You could be right. I have been studying his methods for some time," Gascard admitted. "But that will not stop me from destroying him when I find him."

Fenris muttered something under his breath as they left, and for once Hawke was inclined to agree with him, even without knowing a word of Arcanum apart from _venhedis_.

**-ooo-**

Asa had a surprise waiting for her when Shepard arrived back at the infirmary. Her broth had been replaced with what looked like thin oatmeal, and a cup of water.

"Eat slowly," Asa warned. "You may experience some nausea."

Shepard dragged a spoon through the - there was no other word for it - gruel. "I think I already am," she said, eying it dubiously.

"It isn't to play with," the healer scolded. "And be sure to drink all the water, too."

Cautiously, Shepard raised a spoon full of the slop to her lips.

_C'mon, Shepard. It can't be worse than MREs. Or Gardner's cooking._

She put the spoon in her mouth.

Instead of the watery library paste she expected, Shepard found a flavor more like the broth she'd eaten before, made slightly more substantial by the addition of the cereal grain. She ate steadily, and tipped the bowl to scrape the last of it into her mouth.

Asa watched her carefully. "Any stomach upset?"

"No. Could I have another bowl?" Shepard asked hopefully, between gulps of water.

"Not right now."

"How about now?"

"No."

"Now?"

"No. I'll tell you when."

"Now?"

"_Shepard_."

"I could totally be Anders' problem right now, you know. You didn't have to get involved."

"Yes," Asa said with exasperation. "And I'm beginning to understand why the bas saarebas used his magic to make you sleep."

"Take it up with Mister Smooth Talker, why don't you?"

**-ooo-**

"I was in the middle of something, you know," Anders complained.

"Sorry Anders, but if we find Alessa she may be injured and need healing," Hawke apologized.

"Or she could be dead," Fenris offered.

Hawke shot him an unfriendly look.

"Surely the guards have already thought to search her estate," said Anders.

"We didn't know where she lived until just before we came to the clinic," answered Hawke.

The front door to the house was up a narrow stairway, well-kept but showing signs of age. In fact, the same could be said for the building itself, which showed signs of an owner with a concern for appearances but perhaps not the budget to make full repairs to the old structure.

Hawke did not bother to knock, but bent swiftly to pick the lock. She needn't have bothered, however. The door opened at a touch.

"That's not good," muttered Anders grimly.

They entered, alert for the smallest sign that all was not as it should be, and began searching the rooms on the ground floor. The rooms were sparsely furnished, but those pieces that existed were old and well-crafted - probably family heirlooms that had been slowly sold off over the years as the family fortunes declined. There was a slightly musty smell to the air, as of rooms that rarely received a thorough cleaning but rather just enough to keep up the appearance of cleanliness.

Hawke, who - although she now had a rather decent household staff, had once _been_ her household staff - recognized the work that went into keeping even a small manor house like this one cleaned and aired, understood. All the signs pointed to someone with a family name of some standing but no real income to accompany it. Alessa probably had only one servant to help her, or possibly even managed this place on her own.

There were other signs, too. Although there were plenty of ornaments on display, they were all of more simple materials - pewter candlesticks instead of silver, wood or bone carvings instead of ivory or jade, glass instead of crystal. It was like a well-made but old and somewhat threadbare dress.

In the main hall of the manor, on a pretty desk with an intricate inlaid top, was a vase of flowers just beginning to droop.

Lilies. White lilies.

Hawke shivered.

"We should probably check upstairs," she said, forcing her eyes away from the flowers.

The upper storey was little different from below, except that two of the rooms were completely bare, with a layer of dust on the floor signaling that they were no longer used. Nowhere were there signs of any struggle, or anything that could be construed as out of place.

"Well, that was a fat lot of help," Hawke complained as they walked back downstairs. "You would think there would be something."

"You say that this mage said that they killer always sends his victims flowers?" Anders asked, pursing his lips and looking back at the desk. "Do you think it's possible that he sends a note with them? You know, maybe asking to meet them somewhere nice and dark and quiet?"

Hawke shrugged, and turned to the wilting lilies. "If so, it would have been removed when she put them in water, right?" Her deft fingers tried the drawers of the dainty desk.

The top drawer contained quills, a small delicate penknife suitable for a lady, two calling cards, and various keys. The calling cards appeared to have been from some time ago, and both read Hester Farwell. The small side drawer revealed a polished wooden box with a simple lock that yielded easily to Hawke's picks. Inside were a small scrap of paper bearing a few lines of verse, a thin bundle of letters and a dried flower tied with a ribbon, and, at the very bottom, a hair wreath.

"I don't want to read these," Hawke said reluctantly. "I wish Isabela were here."

"Isabela will read anything," agreed Anders.

"They do not look recent," Fenris noted. "The paper has yellowed somewhat, and the flower looks ready to fall to dust."

"You're right," said Hawke, looking closely at the little packet. "Still, what if…"

"Slide out one of the letters and check for a date," Anders shrugged. "You don't have to read the whole thing."

Hawke nodded, and gently wiggled one of the pages free. As Fenris had said, the paper was yellowing slightly, and the creases were so set in the page that it took some effort to hold the letter open.

_My Dearest Alessa_, she read, and then, on the opposite side of the page, the date. Fifteen years ago.

She let the page fold shut and carefully wiggled it back into the packet. It might not be in order, but at least the packet would be intact, should Alessa even be alive to check it.

"You're right," said the rogue, carefully putting the packet back in the box atop the hair wreath and picking up the scrap paper. "These letters aren't what we're looking for."

She looked over the lines of verse. "What do you two think of this," she said, offering it up.

Anders took it and gave it a look, his face creasing in a frown. "Poetry," he said. "Not particularly good poetry at that."

He handed it to Fenris, who puzzled his way through it. "I concur," was his assessment.

Hawke rolled her eyes. "I'm not looking for literary criticism," she said with a huff. "Do you think it came from the killer?"

Fenris raised the paper to his nose. "I think it's a likely possibility," he said. "See for yourself."

Hawke took a sniff. "Lilies," she said. She essayed another sniff. "And cedar. There's something else that's strong, though. Something… sour, harsh?"

Anders took the page from her and tested it himself. "Yes… I can smell it too. It's something… hmmm." He sniffed again. "I know I've smelled it before. I think there's a faint odor of drakestone, too."

"If you say so."

The healer shrugged and handed the scrap of paper back to Hawke. "Maybe it'll come to me later," he apologized.

Hawke pocketed the scrap. "I'll take it up to Aveline," she said. "Maybe she can make something of it."

She looked one last time at the vase of lilies and shuddered. "Come on, let's get out of here. This place is starting to give me the shivers."

**-ooo-**

Shepard was eating her third bowl of savory slop and reading through the qunari Prayers for the Dead when she caught movement out of the corner of her eye. Curbing her instinct to reach for a weapon, she put down the bowl and called out to the mysterious shadow.

"You can either come in or go away, mister," she said sternly. "Lurking will only get you in trouble."

_Except that Asa's off somewhere, and since it's probably the Arishok the likelihood of trouble is probably negligible._

The shadow moved closer, and as Shepard made out its general size and silhouette, she could see that it wasn't the qunari's esteemed leader after all. And when it was close enough for the light to fall on its face, illuminating eyes the color of blood oranges and a bow the size of a small continent, Shepard smiled.

"Ashaad!" she said cheerfully. "It's good to see you again."

"You are still ill, basra?" he asked carefully.

"Not really," she answered with a wave of her hand. "The asa worries too much."

"This is good," replied the ashaad. "You are not as worthless as the other bas."

Shepard's lips quirked. "I see that compliments are a universal weakness among your people."

The ashaad frowned. "I do not understand."

Shepard shook her head. "It doesn't matter. You wouldn't find it funny, anyway."

The soldier made a soft huffing noise. "You are still as incomprehensible as other bas, however."

"I do my best."

"Is it a skill you are taught, basra, or are you naturally talented?"

Shepard's jaw sagged. "Was that another joke? Ashaad! Someone's going to revoke your qunari license if you're not careful."

"I _am_ qunari. This cannot be revoked, basra."

"All right," Shepard said, grinning, "but if you keep it up I'm sure trouble can only follow. They'll make you copy victory is in the qun a hundred times on the blackboard, or something."

"Perhaps you are correct, basra."

"No!" Shepard laughed. "They don't really make you do things like that, do they?"

"Do not be foolish."

"Sorry," said Shepard, but without much contriteness.

"Ashaad!"

Asa rattled off a stream of what Shepard could only assume was qunlat invective as he came around the paper screens.

"Told you," Shepard said. "This is what happens when you make a joke."

Asa shot her an unfriendly look. "It is what happens when he ignores the _basra-is-off-limits_ order."

"I'm off-limits?"

"You are if I say you are," the healer folded his arms on his chest as the ashaad, though easily towering over the human man, slunk away sheepishly.

"What were you talking about, anyway?" he demanded.

"I told him if he kept making jokes someone was going to make him write anaan esaam qun a hundred times as a punishment."

Asa looked startled. "Where did you…?"

Shepard held up the book. "I'm learning."

The healer shook his head. "You make no sense, basra."

"Did I pronounce it wrong?" Shepard frowned.

"You just said victory is in the qun."

"Yeah? And?"

"And yet should anyone even _suggest_ that you are viddathari, you respond immediately and rather aggressively."

Shepard made a face. "What? I can't make a joke using your language without automatically accepting the tenets of your philosophy?"

Asa sighed deeply. "Why learn the language if not to understand the qun?"

"Because I like to talk to people in their own language sometimes," Shepard retorted. "It's just… I don't know, polite."

"Making jokes is polite?"

Shepard rolled her eyes. "I'm not learning it just to make jokes."

"Shepard, you may well be the most contradictory human I have ever met."

"But not as contradictory as a dwarf?" Shepard replied slyly.

He snorted. "I've met madmen that are less contradictory than you, Shepard."

Shepard grinned. "Thank you."

Asa frowned. "It wasn't exactly a compliment."

"Believe me, it's sometimes hard to tell with you people."


	37. Chapter 36

**Chapter Thirty-Six**

"Hawke!" Merrill was out of breath and her hair was even more disheveled than usual.

"Merrill? What's wrong?" Hawke reached out one hand to steady the elven girl.

"It's… it's Shepard," she panted. "She's… the qunari…"

"It's all right, Merrill. I know," Hawke assured the mage. "Come on in and sit down for a moment. Did you run all the way here from Lowtown?"

"From the docks," Merrill answered, her eyes wide as she followed Hawke into the library. "But…"

"Shepard will be fine," Hawke said. "Although if she hasn't come out of there in another day or so, I might have to go have another talk with the Arishok." She made a face. "For whatever good that will do."

She gently pushed Merrill into a chair. "Now take a few deep breaths and settle down. Why were you looking for Shepard?"

"I found something in the rubbings."

Hawke blinked. "Rubbings?"

"Yes," burbled Merrill excitedly. "Sebastian came to see me and showed me his rubbings."

For a moment all Hawke could do was stare at the elf in shock and amazement. Then, slowly, a bit of reality worked its way into the previous statement.

"And these rubbings were of what, exactly?" she asked guardedly. "This _is_ Sebastian we're talking about."

Merrill gave her a puzzled look. "Yes? Wait, I did say Sebastian, didn't I? I meant to say Sebastian."

"You did, yes. And?"

"The rubbings were from a wall in the ruin he and Shepard visited. It's from the time of Arlathan."

"I see," said Hawke, who didn't. "And what did you find?"

Merrill's eyes shone. "Well, most of it was an old story about Fen'Harel, the Dread Wolf. But there was something that I have never seen before." Her smooth brow puckered and the light in her eyes dimmed a little. "I wish I could show it to the Keeper," she said softly.

"You could, you know," Hawke told her, just as softly.

Merrill shook her head mutely.

The two of them sat silently for a moment. Then Hawke cleared her throat gently. "So what does this have to do with Shepard?"

"Oh!" exclaimed Merrill. "Didn't I say?"

Hawke shook her head. "Nnnoo, I don't think so."

"Sebastian told me if I found anything interesting, I was to tell Shepard," Merrill explained.

"The story of the Dread Wolf?"

Merrill shook her head. "It was after that," she said. "There is something about a place where spirits dwell."

"The Fade?" Hawke asked.

"My people speak of the Beyond, and have done since the time of Arlathan, Hawke. This is something different."

"A cemetery, maybe? Some kind of burial ground, like on Sundermount?"

"Places where the elders slept in uthenera?" Merrill said. "Only their bodies rested in those places, while their spirits walked the paths of the Beyond."

Hawke frowned. "A place where the Veil is thin, maybe?"

"Setheneran?" Merrill suggested.

"Oh." Hawke's brow crinkled. "But what do spirits have to do with Shepard?"

Merrill looked at her in confusion. "I don't know. I thought you would."

"_Merrill…_"

**-ooo-**

"You know what sounds good right now?" Shepard asked Asa, her voice wistful.

"Silence?" the healer suggested.

"A giant plate of chilaquiles with fried eggs and black beans. And a side order of waffles with bacon and maple syrup."

"I understood the words _eggs_ and _bacon_ in that sentence."

Shepard shook her head. "Of all the things this place lacks, next to indoor plumbing the most grievous must be the lack of Mexican food."

"What," said Asa, "and I do understand that the answer will probably make no sense on any level, is Mexican food?"

"It's a regional cuisine that has everything that food should contain. Lots of flavor, a bit of spice, and the generous application of cheese."

"So cheelahkeelays and wahfulls are traditional regional dishes where you come from?"

Shepard had to laugh. "Well, yeah, I guess. Except they're from different regions and different traditions."

"But eaten together?"

"No. Not usually," she admitted.

Asa stopped what he was doing and turned toward Shepard, a tragic expression on his face. "I give up," he said. "How do you function, Shepard? You seem to take a terrible delight in chaos."

"It keeps things interesting," Shepard said simply. "Now, about breakfast…"

**-ooo-**

"What exactly was Shepard looking for?" Hawke asked the prince. "Did she tell you?"

Sebastian shook his head. "No. Not really. She seemed to think we'd know it if we saw it. Or she would, at any rate."

"And these… rubbings?" Hawke had a hard time saying the word, despite knowing the connotations were entirely innocent, in this case.

The prince shrugged. "I do not know. I took them simply because it was the only intact engraving we'd found. I thought, if nothing else, it might be of interest from a historical perspective."

Hawke sighed. "Well, Merrill certainly found them interesting, at least. I don't know if Shepard will."

Sebastian pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Did Merrill say where this _place where spirits dwell_ is located?"

"No. Merrill?"

Merrill broke her gaze away from the statue of Andraste. "She always looks so cross," she said as she came up to them. "I always feel as if I've done something terrible when we come in here."

"Perhaps that means you have done something you must atone for," Sebastian suggested.

Merrill put her head on one side and looked at him with bright curiosity. "Like what?"

Sebastian opened his mouth to answer, but found himself unable to meet the mage's innocent gaze. Hawke took pity on him and interrupted.

"Merrill, did the engraving indicate where this place where the spirits dwell was?"

"In the mountains," came the prompt reply.

"The Vimmarks?" Sebastian asked.

Merrill gave him a look of gentle rebuke. "It's okay, Sebastian," she said after a moment. "I know you don't get out of the Chantry much, except with Hawke. But those _are_ the only mountains around."

"I…" Sebastian floundered.

Hawke frowned. "And you're _sure_ they weren't talking about Sundermount?"

Merrill shook her head so hard her braids flew. "No, I'm sure of it. It's probably a lot closer to where this city stood."

"City?" asked Sebastian. "Merrill, this was no city. It was a building, or buildings, perhaps twice again as large as the Chantry, though not as tall."

"Well, of course. Arlathan fell two thousand years ago," Merrill replied matter-of-factly. "Stone is the only thing that would remain after so long."

"What?" Hawke asked curiously. "Are you saying that the other buildings were made of wood or something?"

Merrill blinked at her. "Most of the buildings in Ferelden are made of wood, right?"

"Well, yes."

"There you are then," said Merrill happily, as if this answered everything.

Sebastian looked slightly shellshocked. "Merrill, if the elves built mostly in wood, their cities could have been anywhere and we would never know it."

"Yes?" Merrill tipped her head again.

"But we've always believed that there were maybe one or two cities apart from Arlathan; that most of your people were settled in the Arlathan Forest."

"Oh, no," said the elf. "There were many, many cities of the Ehlvenan."

"But that…"

"That makes sense," nodded Hawke. "I mean, why else would the Imperium go to war with the elves? And why would it have been such a terrible battle?"

"But…" Sebastian looked a little lost. Hawke patted him gently on the arm.

"Nevermind, Sebastian. It was a long time ago."

**-ooo-**

"You're going to have to let me go sometime," Shepard said reasonably.

"Believe me," replied Asa, "I'm quite looking forward to it."

"It's been fun, hasn't it?"

"No."

"So why not let me…"

Asa rolled his eyes. "Tomorrow morning, Shepard. No sooner."

"But I feel _fine_ now," she argued. "Apart from the excruciating boredom."

"If you're that bored, take a walk around the compound."

"What?" Shepard sat up and closed her book with a thump. "I can go outside?"

"Yes, please, by all means. Go and pester someone else for a change! Perhaps you and the Arishok can annoy each other for a while, and give me some peace."

"Asa!"

"Just go." He pointed a finger toward the door.

"Are you _sure_ you wouldn't prefer if I just…"

"No. You may go anywhere within the walls, basra, but if you even think of leaving this compound, I will have you dragged back by your heels." Asa's voice was sharp, and it was clear that his patience was as thin as a krogan's.

Shepard slunk out quietly.

There was a slight crispness to the air, but the sun was warm on her skin as she stepped out of the healer's tent. She stretched from the tips of her fingers to the end of her toes, and reveled in the same sense of freedom she always got when she escaped from Chakwas' tender mercies in the med bay.

_So now all I have to do is dodge the Arishok._

That meant steering clear of the library tent and his bench, and probably the nearby environs. It narrowed her options a bit when it came to planning a path through the compound, but she could manage.

On her second pass through the qunari camp, her eye was drawn to movement in the sparring arena. Shepard hastily scanned the crowd for the Arishok's distinctive armor, and when she was sure he wasn't among those present, she drifted over to watch.

Although she'd been in the ring several times now, she'd rarely had the opportunity to watch the giants spar amongst themselves. It was… impressive. Their tactics were nothing like what she'd learned in her youth, or what she'd been taught by Thane in their time together. They were military in their precision and ruthless in their delivery, and there appeared to be little to no feinting or weighing an opponent's weaknesses.

_Strength versus strength. Like… elk, tussling with their antlers. Or maybe sheep, butting heads._

The thing that really got her, though, was the complete lack of trash talk. Or talk of any kind. Communication seemed to be entirely made up of nods and eye contact. Catch the eye of an opponent and nod, and they'd take their place in the ring. Another series of nods at the end of the bout signaled winner and loser. Nods among those watching indicated approval.

After one particularly intense fight, the combatants gave each other a little head butt, and clasped each others' arms. The watching kossith made a few rumbles in addition to their nods, and Shepard could only assume that she'd just witnessed the qunari equivalent of _and the crowd goes wild._

Kossith had to be the most stolid and reserved humanoids she'd ever met. Sure, the elcor were more stolid than anything other than, say, a rock, and the hanar more reserved than parking in the Presidium, but both of those species were, well, truly alien. Whereas the kossith were more like the asari or the drell in their similarity to humans. In fact, they seemed far closer to human than any of the species in Council space.

Apart from their size and the horns, that is. And their damned qun.

Shepard didn't realize that she'd fallen into her thoughts until a gentle nudge brought her blinking back to her surroundings.

"Basra," said a stern voice. "Does the asa know you are here?"

She looked up into the face of her friend the ashaad. "Yes," she answered. "He practically chased me out with a stick."

At his look of disbelief, she gave a shrug of her shoulders and rephrased herself. "I mean, he instructed me to get some exercise."

He shook his head ponderously. "There are none here who will face you," he said.

Shepard's brow lifted in surprise. "What? Why not?"

_I mean, it wasn't as if I was planning on fighting, but why wouldn't anyone…_

Her eyes narrowed. "It has something to do with the Arishok, doesn't it?"

One of Ashaad's eyebrows arched. "You tested him."

"So?" she said. "I didn't mean to."

Ashaad gave her a look that Shepard interpreted as _yeah, right_. "He accepted your challenge," he said, as if explaining to a child. "No other will do so. It would be…" he rumbled a few words in qunlat. "It would not be… right."

"Look, nothing's… _happened_, all right?" Shepard assured him hastily. "It's a… misunderstanding. We're… we're working things out, okay?"

"You will mate," said Ashaad placidly. "Asit tal-eb."

"But wait…" If Ashaad noticed the hint of panic in her voice, he made no sign. "I thought that choosing mates was something only the tamassrans did."

"There are no tamassrans here," he replied simply. "It is… unusual."

"But I'm bas!" Shepard exclaimed. "Doesn't that make me worthless?"

"You," Ashaad hesitated, "are _also_ unusual."

Shepard frowned.

"Tell me, Ashaad," she said after a moment. "What do _you_ think about the Arishok, uh…accepting me?"

"It is not my role to question."

"I'm the one questioning," said Shepard tartly. "You're the one answering. If it makes you happy, think of it as an order."

"As you wish, basra," said Ashaad. "He shows wisdom." The blood orange eyes regarded her intently. "As do you."

And with that, the ashaad caught the eye of a soldier across the circle, and the two of them moved to the center of the arena.

**-ooo-**

"Bianca!" said Hawke, as she entered Varric's suite at the Hanged Man. "How's my favorite crossbow?"

"It was a close call, but she's feeling much better," replied Varric, looking up from his trading manifests.

"Good," replied Hawke. "And how's my trusty dwarf? I'm sorry I couldn't comfort you in your hour of need."

Varric waved this away. "No offense, Hawke, but I've seen you with mechanical things that don't involve locks or traps. The best place for you while I was putting my baby back together was somewhere you wouldn't be tempted to poke something and say, 'What does this part do?'"

Hawke grinned. "None taken." She flopped herself into a chair and propped her feet on the corner of the table. "I really don't like this business of Emeric's, though."

"Have the templars found Gascard yet?"

"Not that I know of." Hawke made a face. "And the guard hasn't found any sign of Alessa, either."

"That doesn't bode well."

"No."

"I heard that Starkiller is still convalescing in the bosom of the qun," Varric added. "You still think we should hold off on staging a rescue?"

Hawke shook her head. "She said she didn't need one. But if she's not out of there by tomorrow, I may have to drop by and pay a visit to my dear, sick friend. Bring her some flowers, or something."

"Lilies?" suggested Varric.

Hawke gave him a look. "Tasteless, Varric."

"Too soon?"

"Way too soon."

Varric pushed aside his paperwork. "What did Daisy want with Starkiller, anyway?"

Hawke's eyes twinkled. "She wanted to tell her about Sebastian's rubbings."

The look on the dwarf's face was indescribable. "Choir Boy's… rubbings?"

"Yes," Hawke put on her most deadpan expression. "He showed them to her."

"Well, I'll be a nug-humping dirt farmer."

"Did you just call me a nug?" asked Hawke, letting her boots drop to the floor and giving Varric a smoldering look.

"Hawke, if you were a nug, people would be lining up to become nug-wranglers. And then what would the poor sods in Orzammar do for a living?"

"Politics?"

"Exactly. And the last thing we dwarves need is more politics."

"Too bad," sighed Hawke, sauntering around Varric's chair, one hand casually brushing over his arm and shoulder. "I was looking forward to seeing your nug-wrangling skills in action."

"Hawke," said Varric in a pained voice, "that may be the least sexy thing you've ever said to me."

"Really?" breathed Hawke, right into his ear. "Maybe I should just leave you to your boring, boring manifests…"

Varric's hand caught her around the wrist and he pulled her into his lap.

"I have a better idea. Why don't I show you _my_ rubbings, instead…"

**-ooo-**

Shepard scrubbed her hands over her face wearily. Her head felt thick, as if it was stuffed with cotton, but she could smell coffee.

Coffee! Her mouth practically watered at the pungent odor. She felt as if she hadn't had coffee in months, instead of practically living off of it.

God, but she'd had some weird dreams last night. Marginally better than the nightmares she was used to, but still… weird. She put it down to the sleeping pills Chakwas had forced on her.

"Commander, as the Normandy's medical officer, I have to insist," Karin had said, folding her arms and giving Shepard the stare of authority.

"But what if something important happens?" Shepard had argued.

"Then it will have to happen without you. The war will still be here when you wake up, believe me."

And that was all there was to it.

Well, maybe she'd feel better after she shook off the lingering effects of the drug and had some coffee.

The mess was full of familiar faces as she made her way to the coffee urn and poured herself a cup.

Garrus; the blue glow of his visor a shade paler than the deep blue of his armor, the glint of his right eye a shade lighter still, and the faded cobalt of his colony markings somewhere in the middle of them all; the brushed gun-metal grey of his plates marred by the scarring on his right mandible and cheek.

_Hell, Garrus, you always were ugly. Slap some facepaint on there and no one will know the difference… _

And yet still a sight for sore eyes, then _and_ now.

He was lounging casually in his chair, his right elbow resting on the chair back and his right ankle resting on his left knee, regarding the others gathered around the table.

Tali was to his left, tapping on her omni-tool; the lavender tint of her helmet's faceplate hiding all but her wide, glowing eyes; the intricate design on her envirosuit picked out in shades of plum and silver and black. Wrex was just beyond Tali, hulking huge and red; his scarred plates the vibrant crimson of fresh blood, his eyes like rubies, and his armor a shade closer to wine. Kaidan was next, muted in his charcoal grey armor, skin at once both olive-tan and pale - the result of too much ship duty - eyes and hair dark and serious.

Across from Kaidan - with his chair partly propped against the wall and wearing the ever-present SR-2 cap - was Joker, scruffy as always, even in his Alliance regulation blues. Shepard felt a pang of unease at this - who was in the cockpit? - but shook her head and reminded herself that even Joker had scheduled down time. EDI was likely in full control of the Normandy while he was in the mess.

Next to Joker, Liara sat sipping a cup of something that steamed - likely a golden liquid that asari favored and which reminded Shepard of yeasty undercooked bread - the color of her skin shading from a pale winter sky to the deep blue of a cloudless summer day, and adorably dotted by the asari version of freckles. Although her face was largely turned away from Shepard, she could imagine the guileless look in the Shadow Broker's beautiful eyes.

The last person at the table - and for a wonder sitting still and silent _without_ his eyes glued to a microscope - was Mordin, the pinks and pale reds of his skin softer than Wrex's, just as Liara's blues were softer than Garrus's. Something was jarring about his presence, and the sight of the familiar broken cranial horn wrenched at her for some reason.

Her team. Her _friends_.

It was odd, in fact, how closely she seemed to be studying them all. As if she expected never to see them again.

_Not that strange, Shepard. The Reapers are here and we're at war. You might not._

And then there was that weird dream…

Shepard picked up her mug and moved closer, intending to grab a chair and slide in next to Mordin, and realized that they were talking about her.

"It makes perfect sense to me," Garrus was saying. "She's _Shepard_. There's no one like her."

"Aw, hell, Garrus… you're going to make me blush," she said with a grin, but the turian ignored her.

"She's a fertile female. Usually that's enough to make krogan interested," said Wrex, leaning his forearms against the table. "I'm _still_ getting breeding requests for her from the last time she visited Tuchanka."

"Krogan were requesting to, uh… _breed_ with _Shepard_?" Kaidan asked in disbelief. His face bore a stunned expression.

"She killed a thresher maw on foot," said Wrex. "She and her little tank-bred whelp, Grunt."

"A _thresher maw_?" Kaidan was about to lose his jaw somewhere in the vicinity of the engineering sub-deck.

"Yeah," said Wrex, with a krogan smile. "That was a good day. Clan Urdnot got the whelp, and that damned Gatatog Uvenk was stupid enough to challenge Shepard." He laughed. "You can imagine how that turned out for him."

"I helped a little bit," added Garrus, modestly. "Mostly, I was just there to add style."

"You and your style," snorted Tali, giving him a playful shove. "As if a _turian_ knows anything about style."

Mordin was frowning. "_Technically_ Shepard not 'fertile'," he corrected, making air quotes. "Female Alliance personnel given subdermal contraceptive implants. Otherwise…" he inhaled sharply, "_problematic_."

"Yeah," said Joker sarcastically, "it's a little hard to shoot a rifle when your baby bump gets in the way."

"I thought the Alliance had regulations regarding fraternization," said Tali, her puzzled frown evident from her voice.

"They do," said Kaidan. "But sometimes things… happen." He dropped his eyes to the table.

_Like the night before Ilos_… Shepard remembered with a pang.

Mordin shrugged. "Unsurprising. Humans, turians, krogans… all able to release internal stress via sexual activity. Asari, not so much. Quarians… direct body contact problematic. Volus…" he frowned. "Don't know much about volus mating habits. Hanar, elcor seasonal, only for reproduction."

"Shepard is a fascinating woman," said Liara in her soft voice. "I have no doubt that individuals of many species find her attractive."

"Or piss their pants in fear," retorted Joker.

Tali's eyes twinkled behind the lavender glass. "And which one is it for you, Joker?"

"You don't expect me to answer that, do you?"

"I'm standing right here," joked Shepard, but nobody appeared to have heard her. She frowned.

"What's this guy like?" asked Kaidan suddenly. "Anyone know anything about him?"

"Species known for imposing physical size," said Mordin, with a sniff. "Anatomically and physiologically very similar to humans. Thicker dermal layers, metallic hue to skin tone. Horns."

"Horns?" chorused Joker and Kaidan together.

"How imposing?" asked Tali curiously. "Like Lieutenant Vega imposing?"

"That whelp?" snorted Wrex. "Imposing? Hah!"

Tali turned to him with an irritated air. "Wrex, my people could _never_ build that kind of muscle mass. To us, James _is_ imposing."

"Should Reegar be jealous?" teased Garrus.

Tali hit him. "Shut up about Kal!"

"Oh, _Kal,_" Garrus drawled. "I stand corrected. He stopped calling you ma'am yet?"

"Something we should know, Tali?" asked Joker innocently.

"No…nothing," said Tali, glaring at the turian. "Somebody just likes shooting his big turian mouth off, the bosh'tet."

"Ahem. Male specimens exceed two meters in height," noted Mordin clinically. His large eyes squinted in thought. "Musculature proportionally similar to Lieutenant Vega's, but muscle fibers more dense."

The salarian cupped his right elbow in his left fingers and brought his right hand to his face, where he tapped his cheek thoughtfully. "Not as dense as drell muscle tissue, however. Strength likely not equal to that of krogan." His eyes widened. "Could be wrong, however. Would need tissue samples to be certain."

"Could we just go back a minute and talk about _horns_?" inquired Joker pointedly.

"Horns," acknowledged Mordin with a nod. "Paired. Arising from frontal bone. Uncertain if true horn, consisting of living bony core surrounded by keratin sheath - or antler, consisting of dead bone when fully grown and shed annually. Would need…"

"…samples to be certain," finished Joker. "Yeah, yeah. Really, horns?"

"Yes."

"Not like," Joker waved his hand vaguely at the salarian.

"Salarian cranial horns more correctly equated with ossicones rather than true 'horns'," the geneticist air quoted again. "However, higher percentage of cartilage to osseous bone, similar to juvenile or fetal bone tissue." Mordin blinked. "Individuals with Vrolik's Syndrome excepted."

"Thanks for that, Mordin."

"My pleasure."

A crooked smile began to grow on Joker's face. "So you're saying that a big horny bastard…"

"Is interested in the Commander," finished Liara. "Yes."

"Wait," said Shepard. "How do you guys know about that? That was a dream, wasn't it?"

_Wasn't it?_

Kaidan was frowning. "But what about the drell?" he asked. "The, ah… assassin." There was a tightness around his eyes, and he failed to keep a hint of bitterness from his voice.

"Krios?" said Garrus in surprise. "What about him?"

"Well, I thought… I _heard_ that Shepard… that he and Shepard… were serious." The human shifted uncomfortably. "Before he died."

The glow from Tali's eyes dimmed. "Keelah, that must have been hard for her."

"God, _Thane_," Shepard whispered, closing her eyes, the sense of loss rushing back to her.

There was silence around the table, broken by Garrus clearing his throat. "Ah… Shepard and Krios were… yeah."

"They were very happy together," said Liara sadly. "What they had… it was intense, if all too brief."

"So," Kaidan examined the joins on his armored gauntlet intently, "what is this, then? I mean, if she… if she loved him."

Mordin blinked in surprise. "Shepard not dead," he said. "Still exhibits physiological responses. Love not a requirement for human - or interspecies - copulation."

"What physiological responses?" demanded Shepard. "And what do you mean _this_? There is no _this_. It was a dream!"

"Bigger than Lieutenant Vega," said Tali with a certain kind of thoughtfulness.

"Size isn't everything," said Garrus.

"Yeah, keep thinking that," said Joker, rolling his eyes. "Girls always _say_ they want a nice guy, but what they really want is a huge…"

"You're out of line, Lieutenant," snapped Kaidan angrily.

"What?" protested Joker. "Ladies," he appealed to Liara and Tali, "tell me I'm wrong."

"You're wrong," said Tali. "We _do_ like nice guys. But maybe we like them better if they're also…" She looked around at all the male faces watching her intently, most with some kind of amusement. "Nevermind."

"Oh, no. Do go on," urged Garrus. "If they're also _what_, exactly?"

Tali turned to face him. "Good with a gun," she said flatly.

Garrus didn't bother to hide the flare of his mandibles as he smirked at her. "Uh-huh."

"Perhaps this is what Shepard needs right now," said Liara gently into the pause that followed.

"What I need?!" Shepard snapped. "What I need is for you guys to quit acting like I'm not here! You heard Mordin - I'm not dead! I'm standing…_right…here!_" She thumped her coffee mug down on the table and stood directly in front of Garrus.

"Garrus, look at me!" she ordered, but the turian stared through her as if she were a ghost.

"Mordin," Shepard grabbed the salarian's arm, and he turned toward her, his eyes sad but resolute and a faint smile on his face.

"Had to be me, Shepard," he said. "Someone else would have gotten it wrong."

It felt as though all the blood suddenly drained from her body.

_Shit, Mordin, no. No. _

_Mordin is dead. _This_ is the dream…_

Shepard woke up with a choking, tearless sob.

**-ooo-**

A dwarf could get used to waking up like this.

Hawke's brilliant red hair was tumbled around her head and shoulders, and tickled his neck where it moved with each soft breath she exhaled against his skin. She was all sprawling gangly limbs, one arm thrown across his chest and a long, lean leg twined between his as she curled on her side around him. His hand rested against her soft, soft skin - Maker, how could someone so_ strong_ be so soft? - and he couldn't help but stroke his fingers against it gently.

She murmured in her sleep and snuggled closer.

"Hawke?" he said softly, hating himself for waking her. "It's nearly dawn."

Her face puckered, and she buried her face in his neck. "So?" she mumbled blearily.

"So," he said, brushing a lock of hair aside and tucking it behind her tiny, ridiculous ear, "if you don't want your mother asking you questions you'd rather not answer, you'll want to be getting home."

"Don't care," she declared, her voice muffled by hair and pillow and dwarf. "She can ask all she likes."

Varric chuckled. "Brave words," he said lightly. "What happened to _Varric, you don't know what it's like… She has this look, and there's this tone in her voice… It's as if she never got up to _anything_ that could possibly lead her to having three children.._."

"This is different," Hawke said sleepily, rubbing her nose against his jaw. "I lo…" There was an odd little hiccup in her voice and she went on, "I'm not at the Rose."

"Well, no. You're at the Hanged Man. I'm sure that has to count for something," he joked.

"If you're going to be like that," Hawke grumbled, nipping his shoulder sharply, "next time you can just come to my place."

"Your place?" he said. "And risk waking up next to Griffon?"

"He has his own bed. It's next to the fire."

Varric chuckled. "I hate to break it to you, Hawke, but the moment your back is turned, Griffon is snuggled up in your eiderdown, drooling on your pillows."

"So you can't do much worse to them than he does," Hawke told him, finally lifting her head to look at him. "Would you prefer if I left?"

"Maker's breath, no!" he said, and the look of surprise on his face must have been enough for Hawke, who settled her head back down beside his.

"Well, then, shut up and go back to sleep," she said lightly, her arm tightening around him.

"Sleep?" he teased. "You're awake, and I'm awake," he said suggestively. "Isn't there something you'd rather do?"

"What happened to _Maker, Hawke, you'll be the death of me_?"

"I got better?"

**-ooo-**

Shepard blinked in the darkness. Her heart was hammering and her chest hurt.

_God. Mordin, Legion, Anderson… _Thane.

How many more were dead? Everyone in her dream? Had _anyone_ made it out alive?

_C'mon, Vakarian. Don't be dead. Even if I never get to see you again, I need to believe that someone - _anyone_ - I cared for made it out the other side of hell._

And she'd never know.

Shepard shoved the blankets off of her legs and pushed herself off the cot. She needed to move. She needed scream. She needed to…

Really, she needed to hit something until she couldn't muster enough energy to lift her arms, but she was short on heavy bags and people who deserved that kind of ass-kicking.

So she did the next best thing. She ran.

**-ooo-**

"Really, Lily," Leandra said as her daughter came slinking into the kitchen. "I know that people say that things are different now, and that a husband doesn't necessarily expect his bride to be… _pristine_… but how in Andraste's name to you expect me to find you a suitable match when you carry on so?"

"Says the woman who eloped with the apostate," Hawke replied sourly.

Leandra's back straightened stiffly and her lips drew downward. "I may have eloped with your father, but he never found me out to all hours drinking and gambling and visiting a… a…"

Hawke sighed. "Brothel?" she suggested. "House of ill repute?" She grimaced. "And I suppose Gamlen told you he saw me there when he was brining the Chant of Light to the misguided and lost souls of the whores, hmm?"

"Lillian!"

"Besides," Hawke went on, "I wasn't gambling or at the Rose last night. I was strategizing with Varric."

Her mother's expression softened. "You do good things for Kirkwall, dear, I know you do. Why, the Viscount's Office even sent you a thank you a little while ago! But, please, don't forget that the first thing a man looks for in a wife isn't her ability to stab people."

"Maybe you're not looking for the right kind of man then, mother," Hawke suggested gently. "Maybe the third son of a minor noble isn't the best match for someone like me."

"Now, Lily," scolded her mother, "don't sell yourself short. You're a lovely girl when you're not wearing filthy armor, and you're from an old and once-respected family in this city. You deserve nothing less than a gentleman."

"Yes, but mother, maybe that isn't what's _best_ for me," Hawke argued. "Maybe I'd do better with someone who actually does something for a living. A… a merchant, maybe."

Leandra snorted. "Most of the merchants here are barely better than thieves and thugs."

There wasn't a lot Hawke could say to argue that, given that it was true.

"But…" her mother's face looked rueful. "Perhaps you are right. Perhaps I should be looking beyond Hightown."

Hawke was surprised. Although she loved her mother, and she respected her for all she had given up to become the wife of an apostate, she couldn't stand the snobbery that Leandra had never seemed to completely shed.

"Really?" she hazarded.

Leandra nodded. "Perhaps Starkhaven…"

Hawke rolled her eyes. She should have known.

She sat down in a chair across from her mother and poured herself a cup of tea from the service. As she added more honey than was perhaps strictly necessary, her mother reached out and passed across a bowl of sliced lemon.

"On that subject," her mother said hesitantly. "How would you feel if I remarried?"

The cup stopped a few inches from Hawke's lips. "Remarried?" she said. "Who? When?"

Her mother gave her a little smile. "Oh, I don't have anyone in mind," she said off-handedly. "Let alone a date. I just… wondered what you thought of the idea. I mean, given my age, it's probably silly."

Hawke sipped at the tea. "You're not _that_ old, mother. And why shouldn't you be happy with someone?"

Leandra seemed to think about this for a moment. "You're right, of course. Why shouldn't I?" She said it softly, as if she were speaking more to herself than to her daughter.

"Something I should know, mother?" Hawke pressed gently, an amused smile on her face.

Leandra pulled herself together. "Don't be ridiculous," she said. "I just happened to meet a very nice man in the markets the other day, and it got me thinking. That's all."

"Maybe we should be asking for betrothal portraits for you, instead of me?" Hawke suggested slyly.

Her mother's eyes twinkled at her. "Maybe," she teased, and for the first time in ages - since before her father had died - Hawke saw the girl her mother had been.

"I love you, mother," she said impulsively, rising and giving Leandra a quick hug.

"I love you too, Lily."

**-ooo-**

It was impossible to run in the qunari compound.

Shepard realized that immediately. She attempted to improvise by doing windsprints, but it wasn't enough. She grabbed the guard who had followed her when she left the infirmary and watched her silently as she tried to physically exhaust a pain that was entirely emotional, and headed for the main gates of the compound.

"I cannot let you leave, basra," the guard warned as it became obvious where they were headed.

"I'm not leaving. I'm going to be right outside the gates, running stairs," she said shortly.

"No," he replied.

"It wasn't a request," Shepard told him. "It was a statement of intent."

The kossith frowned at her. "You will not be allowed past the gates, basra."

"Watch me."

There were two qunari guarding the gate, one on the dock side and one on the compound side. Shepard assumed that the latter was there specifically for her, as she didn't recall ever having seen someone posted there before. He straightened and shifted slightly as she approached, folding his arms in the kossith non-verbal communication of their favorite word,_ No_.

Shepard was in no mood for arguing. Ten meters before the gate, she simply broke into a sprint, breezing past the guard and scaling the wooden gate like it was an obstacle in a basic training course.

Her bare feet stung as she landed on the other side, already pivoting to catch the dock side guard with a heel to his gut. He grunted as the wind was driven from him, and Shepard jumped down the few steps in front of the gate, breaking into a cadenced jog just as soon as her stinging feet hit the ground.

_Shit. How did we ever manage without shoes?_

Her breath caught a little as she powered her way up the steps to Lowtown, a sure sign that she'd been inactive for too long, and a welcome feeling. If she couldn't fight someone else, she'd fight herself, her own limitations. She'd spent a lifetime overcoming challenges, and a little thing like a cardio workout wouldn't stop her for a _second_.

She speeded up.

Both her lungs and her legs were burning by the time she reached the top step, pushed off, and turned. And saw three unhappy kossith a few steps below.

Shepard narrowed her eyes and dropped her left shoulder slightly. They could get out of her way or get run down.

"Basra, stop!" The first of the soldiers spread his arms to block the stairwell and got a shoulder with downhill momentum in his solar plexus for his trouble.

The second attempted a body check, and took an elbow to his gut.

The third wisely stepped out of her way.

Shepard ignored him as she jogged past.

Her legs were trembling with fatigue as she reached the bottom, pushed off, turned, and ran into a wall of painted muscle.

She grunted.

"Out of my way," she said from between clenched teeth, her chest heaving with exertion.

"No."

Shepard threw a gut punch that would have put most men on their ass. The kossith merely looked down his nose at her.

She tried slipping around him, but the two others were wedged shoulder to shoulder behind him.

"Dammit, I'm trying to work out here!" she snarled.

"Shepard!" If getting him up in the grey light of the pre-dawn morning weren't enough to piss Asa off, seeing her outside the gates confronting three of the antaam certainly gave things an added fillip.

"Can you please tell these…" Shepard grumbled a few words in krogan, "to kindly get the hell out of my way?"

Asa came down the steps before the gate. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Running stairs," she said evenly.

"Shepard…"

"I'm fine," she growled at the qunari healer. "You were going to release me in a few hours anyway, _weren't you_?" The emphasis was not lost on Asa, who narrowed his eyes.

"After I satisfied myself that you were ready to leave, yes."

"Then I'll be sure to check in with you after my workout."

Asa sighed. "The Arishok will be furious, you know."

"The Arishok can ki…" Shepard stopped herself. "Let him be," she said flatly.

The healer's expression hardened. "Have it your way," he said, and called out to the soldiers in qunlat.

Obediently, the two from the gate returned to their posts. The third took up a post beside the stairwell.

Shepard grunted in satisfaction, and began the long jog upstairs again.

**-ooo-**

Three elves were clustered around the top of the stairwell as Shepard puffed up the last few steps. Two lounged with a faux nonchalance against the walls, and the third blocked the exit.

"What do we have here, brothers?" said the third elf, in the kind of voice Shepard knew all too well.

"Don't," she warned.

"Oooh, the shem says _don't_," said another of the elves, pushing away from the wall. "Funny how they never seem to understand the word when _we_ say it."

Shepard had broken the first rule of her youth. And not only was she unarmed, she was unarmored as well. However, this was offset by the fact that in many ways Shepard was herself a weapon, and she was currently awash in endorphins.

"I'm not going to warn you again," she said, shoving past to plant and turn on the top step.

One of the elves caught her arm.

It was a mistake. His cries of pain echoed as he tumbled down the steps.

"Dirty shem bitch," growled another of the elves, drawing a long dagger from behind his back.

"Wait," said the leader, catching the other's wrist. "Don't I know you, shem?"

"Should I care?" said Shepard, starting to turn back downstairs.

"You're the shem that lives in the alienage, aren't you?"

Shepard hesitated. "Do you have a problem with that?" she said shortly.

"You saved my cousin from some slavers," he said quietly. He released the other elf's wrist and jerked his head back over his shoulder. "Come on."

"A shem who saved elves from slavers?" said the other elf incredulously.

"Yes," said his friend. "Leave her be."

Reluctantly, he sheathed his dagger, endeavoring to tell her with a look that she'd been lucky for the reprieve. Shepard met the look levelly, and deliberately turned her unprotected back on him.

She paused when she reached the groaning elf where he'd fetched up against the wall, well-bruised, about halfway down the stairs.

"Your buddies are on their way back to the alienage. I should catch up to them if I were you."

He flinched slightly as she continued on, feeling slightly better for the exchange.

Until she reached the bottom.

"You are a fool, basra," raged the Arishok, catching her arm just long enough to fling her against the wall.

Shepard's head bounced against the stone and her teeth clicked together sharply, but she shoved away from the wall and into the red-painted chest with both hands, pushing the giant back a step.

"Do you _wish_ to die?" he growled, capturing her wrists.

"I handled it," she growled back. "Besides, they were lightly armed and unarmored - not a real threat." She glared and tried to tug her hands free.

"Maraas imekari. Even a dathrasi can be dangerous in the right circumstances," he said tightly. "It was an unacceptable risk."

"I make that decision, not you," Shepard snarled, bringing a knee up sharply.

He blocked it. "I will not allow it."

"The hell you won't." With effort, Shepard stepped in and tried for a hip sweep.

The Arishok tugged her sharply to him, and Shepard found her nose smashed against a mass of armor strapping.

"I will not allow it," he repeated.

"Try and stop me," Shepard answered, before she really thought about what she was saying.

The world shifted, and her view of the front of the Arishok was replaced by a view of the back of the Arishok. An inverted view.

"You fucking _asshole_," Shepard railed helplessly, as she was carted up the steps and back into the compound.

**-ooo-**

"Was it worth it, basra?"

Asa hadn't spoken for the first full quarter hour after the Arishok had slung her off his shoulder and on to her cot in the infirmary. Now he glared at her as he finished tending the cuts on her feet.

Shepard grit her teeth and looked away.

"I'll take that as a no," he said.

Shepard's eyes snapped back to him. "I needed to blow off steam," she said tightly. "I can't spar with anyone here, so I obviously had to do it some other way."

Asa shook his head. "You couldn't wait one more day?" he asked. "I would have seen to it that you were escorted back to your lodgings. You could have put on your armor and collected your weapons and waited until nightfall when the streets of this city are full of people more than happy to give you a fight. And _he_ would have never known about it."

Shepard didn't need to ask which he Asa was referring to.

She looked away again. "No," she said sharply. "I couldn't."

The healer gave her an odd look. "Shepard?"

The muscles in her jaw bunched. "Just… I just needed to do it."

He stared at her for a moment, then touched her knee gently. "Kost, imekari. Shok ebasit hissra," instructed the qunari healer softly. "Maraas shokra. Whatever it is, let it go."

Shepard turned on him, and for a moment the healer thought she would strike at him, but then her shoulders slumped wearily.

"Easy for you to say," she muttered. "I don't know how."

"Perhaps one day, you will learn."

**-ooo-**

Shepard was at a low ebb when she finally walked down the steps leading into the vhenadahl courtyard, trailing a dark-eyed sten behind her as a bodyguard.

Asa's final words to her had been a warning.

"Step carefully, Shepard," he said in a low voice, his eyes intent and serious. "You venture over very thin ice."

She gave the sten a nod of farewell as she opened the door to her building and trudged upstairs to her apartment. Her fingers fumbled as she unfastened the many locks on the door, and she leaned wearily against the wood as she shut it again behind her.

Shepard tossed her two new borrowed books on the bed and pulled off the loose clothes she'd worn the past four days of her recovery and let them fall, crossing the room to the tiny bathing chamber beyond.

And stopped dead in the doorway.

The small room was utterly transformed. In addition to the new flushing toilet, there was now a carved stone bath, with a huge copper boiler beside it heated by a round iron firebox. Two taps led from the boiler to the bath, one from the top of the boiler and the other from the bottom. The boiler and firebox were up against the wall, and a small stovepipe led from the firebox out through the wall to vent the smoke outside. Other piping led from a hole near the ceiling to the boiler, connecting it to the huge cistern the dwarves had installed on the roof.

The rough wooden floor had been sanded and finished to a soft gleam. There was even a towel on a towel rack.

Shepard had a _bathroom_.

She checked the boiler. It was full.

She opened the firebox. Inside, wood had been laid for a fire, just awaiting a flame.

Shepard walked back out to the bedroom and over to the sturdy chest in the corner. She disarmed the traps and unlocked the lid, finding her equipment - armor cleaned to a near-shine - nestling inside.

Varric hadn't mentioned a _word_ of this when she'd retrieved her keys from him.

Shepard picked up her omni-tool and carried it into the bathroom, where she used it to light the fire in the firebox. While she waited for the water in the boiler to heat, she opened the 'tool and brought up her photo files.

There weren't many, but there were enough.

She was Commander Catriona Shepard.

And somehow, she'd find a way home.

* * *

_A/N_

_The translation of Asa's words to Shepard, in the event you don't want to look it up, is: "Peace, child. Struggle is an illusion. There is no struggle..."_

_Also, apologies for the rough condition of the last chapter. I will be editing and reposting it. The content won't change, but the typos and some formatting things will be fixed.  
_


	38. Chapter 37

**Chapter Thirty-Seven**

"It's good to see you on your feet again."

Shepard stepped aside and motioned for Anders to enter the apartment. "It was a close shave," she replied dryly. "My kidneys were fine, but I almost succumbed to boredom."

The healer looked even more haggard than usual, and Shepard felt a pang of sympathy. "I'm sorry about the qunari incident," she said quietly. "If I'd have known that was going to happen, I would have sent you and Sebastian on alone, or tried to figure out a way to sneak us in to the city."

Anders waved this aside. "I'm the one who should apologize. I shouldn't have… It wasn't right, knocking you out with a sleep spell without your consent." He paused. "What the blazes was so important to the Arishok that he felt he had to abduct you while you were unconscious?"

Shepard's eyes shifted down and to the side. "It's… complicated."

The healer inclined his head curiously. "The elf thought they might be holding you hostage for your technology."

This seemed to surprise the Spectre. "Holding me hostage… for my _tech_? God, no." Her mouth twisted with grim humor. "No, it's _way_ more complicated than that."

Anders quirked an eyebrow. "Speaking of which, you do know there's a qunari down in the courtyard, perfecting his impersonation of garden statuary?"

Shepard bit off a quarian curse and crossed to the single window in the apartment, which overlooked the courtyard. Sure enough, one of the antaam stood with an attitude that was the very antithesis of nonchalance or subtlety, eyes fixed on the doorway to the building.

"I do not need this," Shepard muttered as she turned away from the window.

"Ah," said Anders, with a faint grimace. "So you _didn't_ know."

"No." Shepard's tone was icy.

"Ah," he repeated. He shifted uncomfortably. "Not to make your life more difficult, but I really need your help, Shepard." There was a note of pleading in his voice.

"What's wrong?"

The healer's expression turned bitter. "You remember, before we left for Cumberland, I was telling you about something going on in the Gallows; about fully-Harrowed mages being turned Tranquil?"

Shepard's face became flinty. "Yes," she said. "Did you find out more?"

"Yes," Anders replied shortly. "There's a templar by the name of Ser Alrik. He's proposing something he calls the 'Tranquil Solution' - nothing less than performing the Rite of Tranquility on every mage in Thedas!" He paced nervously. "I need to break into the Gallows and find evidence of this Tranquil Solution. With it, I can force the Grand Cleric off her bloody fence, make her abandon this pose of neutrality."

As he spoke, Anders saw Shepard's body stiffen, while her eyes lit with a fierce fire. When he finished, she replied in voice that was chilling in its intensity.

"How can I help?"

Anders sagged with relief, but quickly straightened himself. "It will be dangerous," he warned. "There is a secret passage that leads under the harbor. I know it from my work with…" he stopped himself. "Anyway, if we're caught, it will certainly mean imprisonment for you, if they don't kill you outright."

Shepard just stared at him with those burning eyes. Then she said, with that same quiet intensity, "A couple hundred years ago, a government on Earth staged the genocide of millions of people. They called it the 'Final Solution', and it amounted to slavery and murder. And that wasn't the first, or last, government-sponsored genocide either, I'm sad to say. This Alrik may not be plotting to kill your people outright, Anders, but what he's proposing still amounts to genocide. I'll help you."

"Thank you, Shepard. I… this is…" The mage floundered with gratitude.

Shepard shook her head. "When do you want to do this?"

Anders collected himself again. "The sooner the better," he answered. "Tonight? I'd like Hawke to come as well. She'll help. This affects her, too. Her sister Bethany's in the Circle."

Shepard nodded. "While you're tracking down Hawke, I'm going to go deal with the oversized garden gnome out there in the courtyard. If we're going to be sneaking into the Gallows, I can't have him following me around like an overgrown puppy."

Anders shot her a sympathetic look. "Meet me at my clinic tonight, then. We'll leave from there."

**-ooo-**

Shepard marched up to the huge kossith with a flinty look on her face.

"What the hell are you still doing here, Sten?"

The dark eyes flickered down to her. "My duty," he replied, in a deep bass rumble. His voice was moderately accented - the only of the kossith qunari she had met to speak with one.

"What is he _thinking_?" Shepard muttered, scowling.

The sten said nothing.

Shepard folded her arms on her chest. "What exactly _are_ your orders, Sten?

"That is not your concern, basra."

"The hell it's not," Shepard huffed. She pulled herself into full commander mode, straightening her shoulders and hips and assuming parade rest, chin up. Her voice hardened. "I asked you for your orders, soldier."

The dark eyes searched hers and wisely decided not to go there. "You require supervision," he rumbled.

"Supervision?" One dark eyebrow lifted incredulously. "The Arishok believes I require _supervision_?"

The sten did not answer. To him, the question was clearly rhetorical.

"Look, Sten…" Shepard tried for a diplomatic approach. "I understand that the Arishok has some concerns about the safety of my recent actions. However, as you can see," she indicated with a gesture her fully armored, armed body, "I am well-equipped to deal with any problems that arise. Please thank him for his concern, and let him know I will check in with him regularly, if it will alleviate any worry on his part."

"Qunari do not worry," said the sten. "It…"

"Has no purpose," Shepard finished. "Yes. I fully agree. So, if you don't mind…" she waved a hand toward the stairwell out of the alienage.

The sten crossed his arms, but showed no signs of moving from his place under the vhenadahl.

"Go," she said, making little shooing motions. "Go on. Give the Arishok my thanks and tell him to _mind his own business_."

"I do not take orders from you, basra," growled the sten.

Shepard tilted her head to look up into the branches of the stately tree. "You're right, of course," she acknowledged, after a moment. "Forget I said anything."

The sten did not reply, but his thousand-yard expression said, _I already have_.

Shepard turned on her heel and returned to the door of her building, shaking her head as she stepped through it.

She loitered inside until one of her neighbors came down the stairs, starting slightly at the sight of Shepard, fully armored, lurking beside the door. She gave the elven woman a reassuring smile, and, as the woman cautiously edged around her and opened the door, activated her cloak, slipping out behind the elf and ghosting across the courtyard and up the stairs with a single backwards glance at the stoic figure supervising a whole lot of nothing at all.

**-ooo-**

Shepard took refuge in Varric's suite at the Hanged Man. The company was pleasant, even if the beer was not.

"I need to talk to those three little bastards," she told the dwarf as they relaxed over a pint of Corff's… well, it might have been his finest, but it was truly piss poor.

"Which three little bastards?" Varric asked. He'd just gotten the best of a tricky negotiation, and was feeling pleased with himself and with life itself. In fact, he felt like telling a story.

"Gavin and his buddies, the interchangeable Nils and Adan."

Varric gave Shepard his full attention, his head tilting slightly. "Something wrong, Starkiller?"

Shepard blinked. "Wrong? God, no. Although you could have _warned_ me yesterday."

"And ruin the surprise?" the dwarf scoffed. "Never."

"It was… perfect," Shepard's eyes were dreamy for a moment, and then hardened. "At least, as close to perfect as you could expect from Kirkwall."

"Pique."

"Yes."

"Well, it _is_ Kirkwall."

"I wanted to thank them,"said Shepard. "Although," her gaze focused sharply on the dwarf, "I expect _you_ had something to do with it."

"They've started two new projects, and there are three more lined up," Varric admitted sheepishly. "I misjudged your insanity, Starkiller. There's a distinct possibility that you'll end up making House Tethras a fortune."

Shepard smiled smugly. "Told you," she said with satisfaction. Her brow furrowed and she tipped her head. "But if the Three Stooges are already up to their ears - or past them -" she added with unnecessary nastiness, "with work, how did you convince them to finish _my_ job?"

Varric leaned back in his chair, lifting his mug of ale, and smiled easily. "Money, Starkiller. Money… and guilt. Two things we dwarves are _good_ at."

He paused. "And maybe just a bit of intimidation."

Shepard chuckled. "You're incorrigible, Manliness."

Varric accepted the compliment with a nod, his smile widening. "That reminds me of a story…"

**-ooo-**

"So what's our plan?" Shepard asked later that evening, after she and Hawke and Anders had exchanged the usual pleasantries.

"Plan?" replied Anders. "We go in, find Ser Alrik's quarters, and search for evidence of this Tranquil Solution."

"Yes," said Shepard, "but how to you intend to go about it? Do you know where his quarters are? Do you have a floorplan of the Gallows? How far is it from this tunnel of yours to his quarters? What kind of security is in place?"

Hawke gave her a look. "It's a prison filled with templars," she said. "I think that answers that question."

"Not necessarily," Shepard argued. "The fact that it was originally built as a prison might mean that the templars rely on the physical properties of the place to deter escapes rather than heavy guard patrols."

Anders was giving her a slack-jawed stare. "Is any of that really necessary?" he asked.

Shepard frowned. "You mean you don't know," she said flatly.

"The tunnel comes out in one of the sub-basements," Anders said. "There are rarely any people at all in the sub-levels, save for the occasional Tranquil fetching something from the root cellars. Templars don't have much to do with actual work - you know, cooking, cleaning, those menial jobs that keep a place running - _that's_ left to the Tranquil and the novices."

"Okay, so we can expect little resistance until we get… where? The barracks? Would this Alrik be bunking with the - I don't know… enlisted?… templars, or is he some kind of officer?"

"He is a high ranking templar," Anders admitted. "But I don't know if he has his own quarters. I do know which wing the templars are housed in, though. We can search room by room until we find what we're looking for."

While Hawke nodded at this, Shepard only stared. "That's the plan?"

"Do you have a better suggestion?" Anders retorted.

Shepard rubbed an eyebrow. "Maybe if I had a floorplan, and a better idea of how Alrik spent his day," she sighed. "But otherwise… no."

"Room by room search it is," said Hawke. She looked almost cheerful at the prospect.

_All those rooms to search for carelessly unguarded valuables… Hawke's idea of heaven._

Shepard gave herself a mental kick. _And since when do you ignore a wall safe or a weapons locker, Shepard? Let alone a tech's toolkit or a medi-gel dispenser…_

_Yeah, well, I used to be a petty criminal, too. Old habits die hard. And some you never bother to lose._

**-ooo-**

The entrance to the tunnel under the harbor was off a narrow sewer channel a few levels below Anders' clinic. The first part of the passage wasn't bad - they were not yet under the harbor waters, and there was an occasional light well to the surface. But as they climbed further and further down, the air became heavier, often choked with smoke from one of the widely scattered torches that lit their way.

"If this passage is so secret, how come there's lit torches? Who lights them?" Shepard wondered quietly.

"Carta mostly, I'll bet," answered Hawke. "They've got to have a discreet way of bringing in their product."

"Product?"

"Lyrium," said Anders. "Smuggled from Orzammar."

Shepard frowned. "If the mages have a way to smuggle in lyrium, they also have a way to smuggle themselves out."

"Oh," agreed Hawke, "I'm sure the mage underground makes plenty of use of this passage." She shot a sly glance at the mage, "Right, Anders? But the lyrium isn't for the mages - it's for the templars."

"The templars? Didn't you say that lyrium was dangerous to non-mages?" Shepard directed the question to the healer.

"It's addictive, and it causes irreparable damage to the mind," Anders replied. "Older templars are so lyrium-addled from years of use that they have to be shipped off to special sanctuaries."

"So why do they take it?" Shepard demanded. "There has to be some benefit to it."

Anders shrugged. "The templars say it's to allow them to use their skills to resist magic. But the King of Ferelden was once a templar, and he says that lyrium isn't necessary - although he allows that it might make those abilities stronger. He thinks it's just a way for the Chantry to maintain control."

Shepard stopped in her tracks. "You're friends with the _ruler_ _of another country_ and yet you live here in Kirkwall's sewers?"

"He's also a Gray Warden," Anders shrugged. "And my association with him was only through the Edana Cousland, the Hero of Ferelden. She was the commander of all the Wardens in Ferelden, and she's the one who recruited me." He grimaced. "Returning to Ferelden means returning to the Wardens, whichever way you look at it. I prefer the sewers."

They pressed on through the not-so-secret tunnel, whose walls became damper and covered with slime and fungus. At odd intervals they passed strange stone boxes that emitted a low humming noise.

"Air exchangers," explained Anders. "And no," he said to Shepard as she scanned one of them with her omni-tool, "I have no idea how they work. Just that the dwarf who invented them was made a Paragon for his efforts. You see a lot of them in some parts of the Deep Roads."*****

Twice, they came across small bands of heavily armed and armored dwarfs who attacked them on sight, further reinforcing Hawke's hypothesis, and finally proving it beyond rational doubt when they came across several crates of refined lyrium, packed in straw to protect it.

"How much is this worth?" asked Shepard, cautiously lifting a vial.

"A _lot_ of money," said Anders, waiting nervously at the exit to the little cave. "Come on. We don't have time to waste."

Hawke gave Shepard a half roll of her eyes and dusted her gloved fingers off, resuming point. Shepard was glad that the healer had insisted on Hawke's presence - the rogue had found and disarmed several traps in this section of the tunnel - and happily let the redhead take the lead.

"We're getting close now," Anders told them in a low voice. "See those stairs? That means we're coming out from under the harbor."

Hawke," he added, "there will be passages that branch off soon. I'll let you know which way to go."

"Where to the other passages go?" Hawke asked curiously.

Anders shrugged, although the rogue couldn't see the gesture. "Who knows. Most probably don't go anywhere. There's a pretty extensive cave system down here, but we're still on an island. A hundred yards in any direction but down, and you're in the harbor."

"Let's hope that nobody takes it into their head to do a little digging, then," Hawke said lightly.

"Don't," answered the mage, his voice tight. As they drew closer to the Gallows, Anders was becoming increasingly edgy. Shepard supposed she couldn't blame him, but she began to keep a closer eye on him, in case she needed to intervene. She remembered, with all too-vivid clarity, having to talk Jack down as the Normandy's shuttle approached the Telton facility on Pragia.

As Anders had warned, they soon started to see openings to other tunnels here and there on their ascent. Some were barely bigger than fissures in the rock, and others were wider than the main passage they followed. Without Anders terse directions, the women would have quickly become lost.

"Stay to the left up here, Hawke," Anders warned as they topped yet another flight of steps. "The ledge is unstable."

Hawke nodded her understanding, hugging the rock wall and testing her footing carefully. Suddenly, she stopped, raising a hand to halt the others.

"Has the passage given way?" Anders demanded, creeping close to Hawke's side.

"No," Hawke replied quietly, over her shoulder. "I heard something."

As they stilled, straining their ears, the frightened voice of a young woman came from an opening in the passage ahead.

"No, please! I haven't done anything wrong!"

Another voice answered; older, male, and with an oily tone Shepard instantly recognized as belonging to a greasy bastard. She'd heard it all too often in her days in the Reds.

"That's a lie," it said smoothly. "What do we do to mages who lie?"

Both Shepard and Anders stiffened at that, and Shepard reached forward to tap Hawke on the shoulder and give her the hand signal for _forward_. The three shuffled along the wall as quickly as they dared.

"I just wanted to see my mum," the girl's voice quavered, catching on a sob. "No one ever told her where they were taking me."

Anders froze. A pale blue aura lit his features. He dropped his head, fists clenching at his sides. "No," he whispered, "No, this is _their_ place." He sounded as if he were pleading with someone. "We _cannot_…"

"Focus, Anders," Shepard told him, her voice soft but full of authority.

The glow faded. Shepard gave his shoulder a squeeze.

They passed through the opening into a wide chamber. Before them were five fully-armored templars, advancing on a girl of about sixteen, wearing mage robes. She was cowering against the rock.

"So," said the voice they had heard before. It belonged to an older, broad-shouldered templar with a bald head but a lush goatee. "You admit your attempted escape?" His lips curved in an almost playful smile. "You know what happens to mage girls who don't toe the line around here, don't you?"

Shepard reached over her shoulder and unclipped Garrus. Her hands were already unfolding the powerful rifle as she brought it into position. To her left, Anders unhitched his staff from his back, and to his left Hawke loosened her daggers.

The girl sank to her knees, trembling in fear. "Please, no!" she whimpered. "Don't make me Tranquil. I'll do anything!"

"That's right," said the templar pleasantly, taking another step forward. "Once you're Tranquil, you'll do _anything I ask_."

"The Chantry frowns on templars that take personal advantage of their charges," Hawke said with a disapproving, mocking note in her voice.

The group of templars whirled around, two of them reaching for their swords.

"Step away from the girl," Shepard warned, lining up a shot on the bald forehead.

"Who's this?" the templar said, taking a single step toward them. He did not sound worried, merely irritated at the interruption.

There was a tiny gasp from Anders, and then the healer strode forward, face once again limned in a flickering blue glow.

"_You fiends will never touch a mage again_," he growled, his voice deeper, more resonant than Shepard had ever heard it. He swung his staff in both hands, a crackle of frost erupting from it and scattering the armored templars.

Shepard cursed as the bald templar dodged with the rest, and cursed again when one of the others closed on her, chopping at her with his sword.

She fell back, holstering Garrus on her back again, and caught the next clumsy swing with her omni-blade. Her palms itched for a pistol more than ever before, and she curled the fingers of her right hand into a fist, smashing it against the side of the templar's square helmet, which rang soundly.

As the man staggered back, Shepard ducked low, caught his sword arm in her right hand and pivoted him toward her, driving her omni-blade into his armpit.

She straightened and shoved him off the blade, only to catch the edge of another sword on her backplate. She lashed out with a boot, connecting with the bottom of her attacker's cuirass and knocking the wind out of him.

He recovered quickly, shuffling back a few steps to take himself out of her immediate range, and readied his greatsword for an overhand blow. Shepard rolled on an angle, coming up on the templar's flank. He pivoted awkwardly to meet her, only just dropping his greatsword to parry the omni-blade.

"Shepard," shouted Hawke, trying to fight her way to another set of steps, "archers!"

Shepard glanced up the steps to see another three templars on a ledge above them, firing down into the melee. She swore yet again, and dropped back, grabbing the corpse of the dead templar and heaving it at his comrade, tripping him up momentarily.

With a brush of her fingers, Shepard armed an incendiary blast. "Hawke," she shouted back, "incoming on your two!"

The burning plasma hit the archers. There was a scream as one caught fire, and shouts and cries of pain as the the others' steel armor superheated.

"You will pay for that, mage," snarled the bald templar, raising one hand and gesturing broadly. There was a cry of rage from Anders, as the blue glow around him died and he dropped to his knees.

Shepard smiled ferally. "Wrong," she said, overloading her 'tool. "Dead wrong." She thrust with her full body weight, the omni-blade sinking through the templar's armor like it was paper and the overloaded 'tool discharging a blue-white arc of electricity along the blade and into the templar's body. He went rigid and convulsed, blue eyes rolling back in his head as his heart stuttered and stopped.

"Ser Alrik!" gasped the remaining templar, his helmet giving his voice a weird, breathy quality.

Shepard and Hawke both advanced on him, and he swung his sword in low arcs to keep them at bay. Shepard feinted to the left, drawing the man's attention for a fatal moment, as Hawke slipped past his guard to drive her daggers between helm and cuirass.

"Did he say what I thought he said?" asked Hawke incredulously as she wiped her daggers clean. "Is that really Alrik?"

"That's what I heard," Shepard agreed, fingers darting over her 'tool's interface to bring up a diagnostic scanner.

She approached the terrified mage cautiously, hands out placatingly. "It's all right," she told the girl gently. "Nobody's going to hurt you."

The girl raised a tear-streaked face. "W-who are you?" she quavered. "Are you apostates?"

Out of the corner of her eye, Shepard saw Anders struggling to his feet, the blue glow flaring to life around him.

"My name's Shepard," Shepard told the girl. "Are you injured?" Moving slowly, she crouched, bringing her left arm up in front of her, and initiated a scan.

"_They will die!_" snarled Anders, casting about him like a wild thing. "_I will have every last templar for these abuses!_"

"The templars are gone," Hawke told him tartly. "You can stop glowing."

He surged forward, toward Shepard and the mage girl. His eyes were completely filled by the blue light, burning so incandescently that they shaded to pure white in their depths.

"_Every one of them will feel justice's burn!_"

The girl cried out and recoiled. "Get away from me, demon!" she wailed.

Anders bore down on the helpless mage. "_I am no demon!_" he roared. "_Are you one of them, that you would call me such?_"

"Justice!" Hawke's voice was sharp. "She's a mage. One of those you're trying to help!"

Shepard straightened up, rising between the raging healer and the young girl. "Anders, stand down," she ordered.

The thing that was Anders leaned forward, its face twisted in a sneer of contempt. "_Justice answers to nobody,_" he declared, and raised his hand, drawing it back and charging it with magical fire.

The girl bowed her head and lifted her clasped hands imploringly. "Please, messere," she sobbed.

Shepard tensed to take the healer down, but he suddenly jerked back, stumbling, his hands clutching at his head. The blue glow pulsed and flared fitfully around him. "No!" he cried, in his normal tenor.

The light died, and the mage crumpled to the ground.

Shepard motioned for Hawke to come get the mage girl. "Go," she said quietly. "Get her out of here. I'll deal with Anders."

"That isn't Anders," Hawke said flatly, taking the girls arm and helping her to her feet. "It's Justice."

The rogue hurried the girl to the chamber's exit, and paused, glancing back at Shepard.

"Be careful."

**-ooo-**

Anders sat up with a start and a cry.

Shepard caught his arm. "It's okay," she said.

The healer began to shake like a leaf in a gale. "Maker," he whispered. "Maker, no." He turned anguished eyes on Shepard. "I almost… if you weren't here…"

"It's okay," Shepard repeated. "I _was_ here." She eyed him speculatively. "What just happened?"

The healer's face was stark white, and his eyes were haunted and hollowed. "I… Justice…" he pulled out of her grasp and scrambled to his feet. "I… I need to get out of here."

Shepard caught him again before he'd gone three steps, gently but firmly pushing him against the rock wall. "Anders," she said sternly, "I want some answers."

"Let me go," he cried hoarsely, trying to pull away again, panic marring his features. "I need…"

"You need to talk to me," Shepard insisted.

The healer made a whimpering noise, and the next thing Shepard knew, she was on her ass, rubbing her throbbing jaw.

_Holy fuck. Who taught him how to _punch_? A fucking krogan?_

She sighed, and a flicker on her left wrist caught her eye. It was an error message, indicating that the scan had been interrupted.

Shepard frowned thoughtfully. She'd been scanning this whole time?

She picked herself up, and, since Hawke wasn't around to do the honors, quickly began searching the bodies of the fallen templars. She paid special attention to the bald corpse, and let out a low hum of satisfaction when she found a packet of letters under his armor. They were burn-spotted and the edges were singed, but as she opened the first one, she could see it was still legible. Very legible. Shepard tucked them carefully into her belt pouch, and looked down at the corpse with disgust.

"This world's a better place without you in it," she told the body. "How many of them did you have your way with, you bastard? How many did you make your personal slaves?" She kicked the carcass. "No more."

"No more."

* * *

_A/N:_

_*One of the things that's bothered me about DA is the whole fresh-air-underground thing. They go so far as to talk about a respiratory problem with something called chokedamp in Darktown (I dunno if it's supposed to be like firedamp, or something unique to Thedas or Kirkwall) but never mention how oxygen gets down into the Deep Roads or the old Thaigs. And since in most of the maps for DA2 (okay, the one map they use over and over again), there's clearly large openings to the surface, it's no problem, right? Except that this is _supposed_ to be a secret passage to the _Gallows_, which is an _island_, which means going _under_ the harbor, which means_ _there's_ no way there's holes to the surface_. And there's fire - torches and campfires - eating up the available oxygen. So... this is my headcanon to fix this conundrum. Because my brain can't deal with it as is._

_Also, you'll notice that I deviated a bit from the Dissent script and map. Because of the above._

_Also also, tried to get this out for New Years, but missed. Some of it _may_ have been written while under the influence of alcohol.  
_

_Happy New Year anyway._


	39. Chapter 38

**Chapter Thirty-Eight**

Dawn was already coloring the sky when Shepard finally clambered out of the sewers.

She hadn't encountered anyone on her trip back under the harbor - not Anders, not Hawke and the mage girl, not even a Carta patrol. As she stood and stared at the pastel colors of early morning, she wrestled with indecision. Should she try and track down Anders, or should she find Hawke and make sure the mage girl was all right?

Well, Anders' clinic was less than fifty meters away. She'd check for him there and if he hadn't yet returned, she would go to Hawke's estate in Hightown and check in before mounting a search for him in earnest. Although how the hell she was supposed to find one man in the maze of tunnels that made up Darktown and the Kirkwall sewers, Shepard couldn't begin to guess.

The lantern over the door was still extinguished, but Shepard made clumsy but short work of the door's lock and entered anyway. A quick search of the premises proved that the healer wasn't hiding within, and probably hadn't been back. Shepard sighed and relocked the door on her way out. Whatever happened - and Shepard wasn't yet prepared to hazard a guess as to what that actually was - it was clear to her that in his agitated state, Anders was a danger to himself and others.

"Come on, Anders," she breathed, "wherever you are, keep it together."

**-ooo-**

"Ah, Shepard. Can I assume that the qunari on the doorstep is yours?" Hawke asked, folding her arms and giving Shepard an amused stare as Shepard slunk into the kitchen behind Bodahn.

"Has he been standing there all night?" Shepard asked sourly. "And why _here_?"

Hawke shrugged. "I don't pretend to understand the qunari," she said. "All I know is that he was there when we arrived."

Shepard shook her head irritably.

"How's the girl?" she asked. "I intended to check her for injuries, but…"

"It was better to get her out of there," Hawke finished for her. The rogue dropped her arms and lowered herself into a chair. "She seems fine - still shaken, but fine." She gestured to the ceiling. "I put her in my room upstairs. She's sleeping."

Conflicting emotions warred over Hawke's face. "How's Anders," she asked, finally.

Shepard sighed, and eased herself into the chair opposite Hawke. "Gone," she said.

"Gone?" Hawke sat up straight, her expression at once deeply alarmed. "Do you mean…"

Shepard shook her head. "No. Just gone." She ran her fingers over her bruised jaw. "He has a mean right hook."

"He attacked you? _Maker_…" Hawke was clearly working herself toward a state of guilt and worry that would do no one any good, so Shepard held up both hands and replied in a firm voice.

"Calm down. He panicked when I tried to stop him from running off, and he hit me. That's all. I should have been more alert."

"But…"

"No buts, Hawke. Whatever happened before, he was himself when I last saw him. Frightened, panicking, and deeply upset, but himself."

Hawke sagged back against the chair. "Maker…" she breathed on a long exhale.

Shepard watched her with sympathy for a moment. "That's not to say I'm not concerned," she went on. "He's still a danger right now. Probably more to himself than to others, but given what happened last night I think it's important that we find him as soon as possible."

Hawke nodded. "I… I knew this could happen," she said slowly. "But I think I convinced myself that it never would."

"What exactly _did_ happen?" Shepard asked, brow furrowing. "I would have said it was some kind of a psychotic break, but… when he spoke, he sounded nothing like himself. His voice was… almost flanging."

"It was Justice," Hawke repeated. "The… spirit… that Anders allowed inside of him."

"This would be the whole demon thing that Fenris goes on about?" Shepard said shrewdly.

"Yes."

Shepard shook her head again, dissatisfied. "That just doesn't make sense. Look, the Fade has to be some kind of… mental state. A shared hallucination of some sort, maybe couched in terms of a collective consciousness or something…" She raked an armored hand through her hair. "I'm not a psychiatrist, but I know that cases of so-called possession all boil down to mental illness of some sort."

Hawke blinked in surprise. "But you've seen demons, abominations," she pointed out. "Fought them."

Shepard considered this. "I've fought something that you call demons, yes. But outside of when we were in a dream state, none of them appeared to have speech, or advanced self-awareness. They were more like rabid animals." She frowned. "What I saw last night was… sentient."

The Spectre rested her elbows on the table and put her head in her hands. "I'm not saying I can explain it," she admitted. "Just that I'm sure there is an explanation that is reasonable and logical and not the equivalent of _the devil made him do it_."

It was probably a good thing that Shepard couldn't see the look on Hawke's face, and that the rogue was practiced in flippant comments, otherwise Hawke's, "I'm sure the Circle would _love_ to hear what you come up with," might have caused more than a little friction.

Instead it passed directly over the Spectre's bowed head.

"And I have no idea where to start looking for him," she finished, staring deeply into the grain of the table.

Reluctantly, Hawke's voice softened. "I hate to say it, but I don't think there's anything you can do. He knows the sewers well, and I'm positive he has more than one bolthole down there for emergencies - like a squad of templars showing up at his front door. I don't think even you will be able to find him if he doesn't want to be found."

Shepard groaned. Hawke's words had the unpleasant sound of truth to them.

"He escaped from the Ferelden Circle seven times, and the Gray Wardens once," Hawke went on. "I think the best we can do is keep an eye on the clinic and hope he returns there soon."

**-ooo-**

There was another qunari posted outside the door of the Hanged Man. As Shepard approached with the soldier from Hawke's in tow, he detached himself from his post and fell in behind her without a word.

The dark-eyed sten was still standing where she'd last seen him, under the vhenadahl. His expression darkened when he caught sight of Shepard and her honor guard, and he strode forward to meet her as she approached the door to her building.

"You will not do that again," he instructed sharply.

"I won't?" Shepard asked innocently. Out of the corner of her eye she saw one of the other soldiers take up the sten's former position under the tree.

"No," the sten's face was stern. Shepard wasn't sure if there was such a thing as a happy kossith, but this was definitely not one. "You will not."

Shepard tensed herself, expecting the giant to try for the old sack of potatoes move, but he simply continued to stare down his impressive nose at her.

"If you say so," she said with a shrug, opening the door.

The sten's meaning became clear as he followed her inside. Shepard stopped in the narrow hallway and folded her arms. "Where do you think you're going?" she asked. "My lease doesn't allow pets."

By his grunt of disapproval, Shepard assumed he got the joke, but didn't find it funny. The two of them eyeballed each other for over a minute, and then Shepard turned without comment and went up the stairs to her apartment. She unlocked the door carefully, opened it, and waved a hand at the open portal.

The sten made a wordless grumble and folded his arms, settling into place beside the door.

With a tight nod of acknowledgment, Shepard stepped through and shut the door behind her. She didn't bother to lock it - she doubted that anyone would attempt to make it past her new qunari guard dog.

_Fuck. One more thing to complicate my life._

Shepard passed through the bedroom to the bathroom, pausing just long enough to unlock her weapons chest and stow Garrus safely inside, and checked the firebox under the boiler. Coals still glowed inside - Shepard poked them a few times and added a few lumps of the coal that Varric told her would heat the water more efficiently than wood. As the fire picked up, she scanned the temperature of the boiler - warm, but not hot - and set her omni-tool beside the bathtub.

She removed her armor and set it aside for cleaning later, peeled off her skinsuit and dropped it in a bucket for rinsing, and shucked off her underwear, tossing them in the direction of her dirty clothes basket. She made use of the primitive but still delightful toilet, checked the temperature of the boiler again - definitely warming up - and sat on the edge of the tub to wait.

A half-second later, she got up and fetched a towel, placed it on the tub ledge, and re-seated herself.

Shepard picked up her omni-tool and idly began to look through the results of the scan she'd taken. The first part was clearly when she'd begun scanning the mage girl - human vital signs, slightly elevated - but then the results took a turn for the weird.

She frowned, and tapped through some additional commands, trying to clean up the scan. The reading was the same.

Shepard stared at nothing for several seconds. Then she carefully set the omni-tool down and opened the bottom tap on the boiler, gingerly testing the water that poured out with the tips of the fingers on her right hand.

After a few minutes, she retrieved the omni-tool again and re-read the results. Shepard shook her head.

_That can't be right._

She carried the device out into the bedroom, set it to run a self-diagnostic, and left it on the bed.

Then Shepard took a long, luxurious bath, dried herself thoroughly, and slipped into the clothes she slept in. She checked the status of the diagnostic, transferred the 'tool to the top of the weapons chest, and slid between the sheets.

She was asleep in seconds.

**-ooo-**

"Dark energy," Shepard said flatly.

Hawke and Varric looked at the projected image in front of them with incomprehension.

"Yeess?" hazarded Varric after a moment.

"There's more dark energy there than… than… _fuck_," Shepard exclaimed. "It caused a calibration error when the program had to re-peg the scale the second time."

"Sooo… what? You're saying that magic and dark energy are the same?" Hawke guessed.

Shepard shook her head. "I'd already wondered if magic was linked to dark energy in some way, because of it's similarities to biotics. But this is… this is something else entirely. It's like I stuck my arm in the Normandy's drive core!"

At the two rogues' bemused expressions, Shepard began to pace. "_Nobody_ can produce that much dark energy biologically! Not even Jack could produce a _quarter_ of that, and she's the strongest biotic I've ever seen."

"I'm not sure what you want us to say, Starkiller," said Varric slowly.

Shepard sat down suddenly. "I've run two full diagnostics on the 'tool, and one on the scanning program itself. Everything checks out perfectly. The 'tool is working fine."

"I've gone back through a lot of my older scans," she went on. "Trying to see if I could figure out what it all means. I was certain that the mineral you call lyrium must be derivative of element zero, but if so, it's one that's never been cataloged before. It just…"

Shepard stopped, mid-sentence, and put her face in her hands, rubbing wearily.

"I want to go home," she said.

Hawke and Varric exchanged glances. "I don't suppose you mean the alienage, do you?" Varric asked gently.

"No."

The dwarf reached out and patted her gingerly on the shoulder. "Cheer up, Starkiller," he told her. "You keep hanging around Hawke and there's always the chance you could die tomorrow. And then all your problems will be solved."

Shepard let her hands drop away from her face and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "There's got to be an answer that makes sense," she said. "Something that ties all of this," she made a brief circling gesture with one finger, "together. Me, the protheans, vast amounts of dark energy, and the presence of humans on this planet… all of it."

"A theory of everything, huh," joked Varric.

Shepard laughed hollowly. "I hope it's easier than that. Scientists are still working on that one."

"What…" Varric began, and then shook his head. "I don't want to know."

"At least Anders is back safe and sound," Shepard sighed.

Hawke waggled her hand back and forth. "Safe, yes. Sound… not so much."

Shepard shoved herself off the chair roughly. "What the hell happened to him? What could turn a human into a… a…" she paced jerkily, "_shit_… a dark energy fountain?"

Hawke watched her pace, frowning thoughtfully. "What _is_ dark energy? You talk about it as if its like… air, or water."

Shepard gave a bark of laughter. "Air - what we call air - an oxygen-nitrogen atmosphere - is fairly rare. Liquid water too. Whereas most of the universe is made up of dark energy and dark matter. Only a very tiny fraction of the universe is actually directly observable matter and energy; stars, planets, radiation - dark energy sort of… fills the spaces between. It's called 'dark' _because_ it was very hard for early scientists and theorists to observe directly - the very existence of dark energy was really only postulated due to its gravitational effects."

"So it's real but you can't see it?" Hawke asked, fascinated.

"We've actually gotten fairly skilled at detecting dark energy," Shepard answered. "Hell, a large part of our technology is now based on it."

"Oh," replied Hawke, looking slightly crestfallen. "I was going to say that the Fade is maybe like this dark stuff, because it's all around us but we can't really see it or interact with it unless we're dreaming. Or a mage."

"There she goes again," said Varric, with a shake of his head. "Starkiller, you've got to stop putting these crazy ideas into Hawke's…" He paused. Shepard was staring at Hawke with a slightly slack jaw and an unfocused look in her eyes. "Starkiller?"

Shepard let out a low hum, and turned her attention to her omni-tool, fingers flying over the interface.

Hawke and Varric looked from the feverishly tapping Spectre to each other and back again.

Varric shrugged. "Something you said?"

A minute or two later, Shepard ran a hand through her hair and clutched a fistful of it. "Shit," she muttered. "I'm not a physicist! How the fuck am I supposed to know if it's theoretically possible or not?"

"Oh, _Shepard_," said a bright voice from the door. "Did you get sap in your hair?"

Merrill stood on the threshold, her head cocked like a little sparrow. "I've gotten sap in my hair before," she went on. "It was terrible."

"No, Daisy," said Varric gently. "She doesn't have sap in her hair."

The elf's eyes grew wider. "Ooh. She didn't braid her fingers into her hair did she? I did that once. It was so embarrassing, the Keeper had to help me and I…"

Hawke thought about asking the question, and didn't. "No, Merrill, it's not that either."

"Oooh. A headache?" suggested the mage.

Shepard sighed and let her hand fall. "The figurative kind," she explained.

Merrill came closer, and leaned toward Shepard conspiratorially. "I've been meaning to ask," she said in a low voice, "what do you have to do to get a qunari to follow you around like that? Do you pay them? Give them juniper berries, like halla?"

Shepard gave the elf a tiny shake of her head. "I'm afraid not," she said with a faint smile. "You have to make the Arishok really angry."

"Oh." Merrill seemed to consider this. "He gets very cranky when he's angry, doesn't he?"

"Oh, yes."

Merrill frowned. "I don't think I want to do that, then." She sighed. "I'll just have to appreciate yours from a distance."

"You want a qunari to follow you around, Daisy?" Varric asked incredulously.

The elven girl colored a little. "Well, they're… very pretty to look at. Like halla. But bigger. And with hands and feet rather than little hooves."

Shepard gave the girl a grin. "Feel free to appreciate mine all you want. Someone should."

Merrill frowned. "You don't like them?"

"Let's just say I like them better when they," Shepard raised her voice to be heard by the sten waiting outside Varric's door, "_mind their own business_."

"Clearly, _you are_ their business now, Starkiller," Varric informed her with an amused tilt of his head.

"Don't remind me," Shepard growled.

"Have you found the place where spirits dwell yet?" Merrill asked curiously. "I know you've only been thinking about it a couple of days, but you're so smart I thought that maybe it was simple for you."

"Merrill," said Shepard in a pained voice, "never confuse _smart_ with _technologically advanced_. They're not the same thing."

The mage cocked her head. "But you _are_ smart," she insisted. "And strong and brave, like Hawke."

"It's nice that a lowly dwarf like me gets to bask in the presence of such strong, brave, smart people," said Varric dryly. "I'm offended, Daisy."

"Oh, Varric," said Merrill soothingly, "you're smart, too. You have to be smart to lie as well as you do."

"Thanks," said Varric. "I think."

"It's true," burbled the elf. "I get all muddled up when I try."

Shepard's expression had grown puzzled. "What were you talking about before?"

Merrill blinked. "How pretty the qunari are?" she suggested. "With their horns and their muscles and their…"

"No, it was after that," said Shepard firmly. "Something about where spirits dwell."

"Oh, that."

"Yeah. That," Shepard gave the elf a shake of her head. "What did you mean? The… er, Fade?"

Merrill shook her head until her braids bounced. "No. I told Hawke before. It doesn't have to do with the Beyond, or the Veil. It's something else, but I don't know what it is."

Shepard turned a raised eyebrow to the rogue. "Hawke? Care to enlighten me?"

Hawke slapped a hand to her forehead. "I totally forgot," she admitted. "With Anders, and the girl Ella, and everything."

Merrill looked intrigued. "What happened?"

Hawke looked uncomfortable. "Anders and Justice got a bit… mixed up for a moment," she told the elf.

"The spirit took him, didn't it?" said the mage shrewedly. "Poor Anders. He just doesn't understand that the spirits aren't like we are. They don't think the same way." She looked sad. "They're a bit simple, really."

"Yes, well, Justice has gone away again, and he's just Anders now. Not a very happy Anders…"

"Hawke, when is Blondie _ever_ happy?" interrupted Varric.

Hawke gave him a look and continued, "But at least he's himself again."

"Not a lesson he wanted to learn, I expect," said Merrill.

"One we all can learn from, perhaps?" suggested Hawke gently.

Merrill sucked on her teeth as she considered this.

"No," she said. "I think it pretty much only applies to him."

Hawke rolled her eyes.

**-ooo-**

Eventually, Shepard got filled in on Merrill's translation of the ruin's inscriptions.

"Were there any descriptions of the spirits?" the Spectre asked. "Protheans are… rather distinctive looking."

"More distinctive than your _other_ friends?" Varric wanted to know.

"Er… maybe?" Shepard's brow wrinkled. "I suppose it's all in the eye of the beholder, really. I mean, I grew up hearing about how the turians looked like monsters, but to me they never looked all that scary - even with the needle-sharp teeth."

"So you're fine with needle-sharp teeth, but you find some other trait _distinctive_?" Varric shook his head. "I'm almost afraid to ask."

"Protheans look a little like… bugs."

"Bugs?"

"Cockroaches," Shepard clarified, looking slightly guilty. "I've always tried to put it aside, because, hey, it's not as if humans aren't weird-looking in our own way, but the buggy species…" she shook her head, "…are just a little creepy."

"So any mention of the great insect spirits, Daisy?" Varric put forth.

Merrill shook her head, looking at them like they were all hard of thinking. "No. The inscription didn't mention the spirits _themselves_ at all. It mentioned the place where they dwell."

Shepard shrugged. "It's certainly worth a shot. The Arishok was kind enough to lend me a book detailing a lot of ruin sites in the Free Marches. It's possible, since Sebastian tells me that Cumberland was once part of the Free Marches, that something will turn up that could be a match, and I can check it out."

Merrill bounced a little on her toes. "Oh, if you go, could I come with you? Please? I promise not to accidentally set anything on fire!"

"Don't ask," muttered Varric in an aside to the Spectre's bemused look.

"The first thing is to do the research," Shepard replied, noncommittally.

"Yes," answered Merrill. "Right. Of course."

"Well," said Shepard, popping her back. "I think I'll just take my qunari and go see how Anders is doing. It's probably not a bad idea to keep a little closer eye on him for a few days, until he settles."

Hawke sighed. "He's pretty upset. He blames himself. He's sure that, without you or I there, he would have killed Ella."

"Speaking of," Shepard asked, "is she still staying with you?"

Hawke shook her head. "No. Mother gave her some coin and a few of Bethany's old cast-offs, and Bodahn and Orana packed up some food that will travel well, and I got her in touch with the mage underground," she replied. "They'll help to get her out of the city safely. After that…" She sighed. "It's not an easy life, being an apostate. But I think it's better than the alternative."

For a moment, Shepard wondered what life must have been like for Hawke and her siblings, growing up. In a lot of ways, she expected that Hawke's early life had been a lot like her own - uncertain, lonely, and hard. It was an upbringing that made you strong, if it didn't break you down.

And now wealth, and a certain amount of respect, and a never-ending stream of requests from people unwilling or unable to fix their problems themselves…

_I wonder which she thinks is better; the life she left, or the one she has now?_

**-ooo-**

Anders looked like he'd aged ten years in the past seventy-two hours. He was healing a boy of about twelve, closing a deep gash that ran from his elbow down the inside of his forearm and over his palm to a terminus in between his ring and pinkie fingers. It looked suspiciously like a knife wound.

Shepard lurked to one side until the healer had finished and smiled wanly at the boy. As the lad scurried away, Anders sank down onto a stool and put his head in his hands.

"I know what you're here to say," he told her.

Shepard folded her arms and rested her weight on her right heel. "Oh, really?" she said sardonically. "Do tell."

"I almost killed that girl. I'm a… a monster," he said heavily.

"Eeeh," Shepard made a harsh buzzing noise. "Wrong. I was going to ask how you're doing."

"How I'm doing?" Anders laughed hollowly. "Why not ask the girl I almost _murdered_ how _she's_ doing."

"She's fine. "Already out of Kirkwall and safe from the templars - at least for the moment."

Anders raised his head and squinted up at Shepard. "Why are you and Hawke doing this? Don't you _care_ that I almost killed an innocent girl?"

Shepard strode over to him and hunkered down so she could look him straight in the eye. "Yes," she said. "I do."

"So why…"

"Because the Anders I know wouldn't have harmed a hair on that girl's head, that's why," she said forcefully. "Because I'm a mighty damn fine judge of character, and I have you pegged as a man who would go out of his way never to harm an innocent."

"You're wrong," Anders replied. "It was _my_ anger that warped Justice, _my_ hatred that has turned him into a thing of vengeance."

"Okay," said Shepard, sinking down onto her knees and resting her hands on the healer's legs. "Let's just table the whole issue of whether or not you're a monster for the moment. _What the hell happened_, Anders?"

"You saw it," the healer said bleakly. "I was prepared to strike that mage down."

Shepard squeezed her hands firmly. "Details, Anders. _Something_ happened. You were radiating dark energy like my ship's engines."

"Justice," he said. "I lost control and Justice just… took over."

Shepard rubbed her forehead with her fingers. "You and the others… you talk about _spirits_ and _demons_ and this… Justice. What _is_ Justice?"

Anders sighed. "He's a spirit of the Fade," he said quietly. "It was… while I was a Gray Warden, shortly after Edana recruited me. We were investigating a place called the Blackmarsh - looking for a missing Warden - and became trapped in the Fade. While we were trying to escape, we encountered a spirit of justice. When we managed to transport ourselves back to our world, somehow the spirit of justice got pulled over as well, trapping him _here_ the way we had been trapped _there_."

The healer ran a hand through his hair. "Fade spirits can't really operate here without a host body. When he was pulled over, Justice found himself occupying the corpse of the missing Warden, who had been killed by darkspawn before we arrived."

"In the body of the Warden, Justice went on to help Edana and the rest of us defend Vigil's Keep and the city of Amaranthine from a darkspawn horde. But although he could animate the body, it was still a corpse, and it continued to decompose. Slowly - something about being inhabited by a Fade spirit slowed down the process - but irreversibly. Not to mention, the poor man's wife was distraught - her husband's body was walking and talking, but the personality inside wasn't his."

"We'd become friends, and, well, I thought it had to be better for him to inhabit a willing host - and a friend - rather than continually possessing the bodies of the recently dead, so I… I offered to be his host."

Anders stared into middle distance, refusing to meet Shepard's eyes. "It…didn't turn out the way we planned. Justice… well, that's all he knew. Fade spirits embody a particular concept or ideal, and so Justice was untouched by things like fear, and hate, and anger." He shrugged. "And, of course, the Warden's corpse was long past feeling anything."

"We had no idea what would happen. When Justice… moved in… he encountered all my emotions and they… changed him. My anger, in particular. In truth, he is no longer the friend that I knew, but a creature twisted by my anger and hate. He is Vengeance, not Justice. And he has no sense of restraint or control."

Shepard rolled off her knees onto a hip, and then back on her butt. "Really a spirit?" she said skeptically.

"Really a spirit," Anders affirmed.

"A completely separate entity from you?"

"Originally, yes, of course," Anders' brow furrowed. "There's a handful of people who knew him as Justice back at the Keep. You could ask them if you really don't believe me."

Shepard shook her head. "I'm sorry. It's just that my brain struggles with the concept of spirits and demons."

Anders lifted one shoulder and let it drop. "Call him a creature of the Fade, then. Or another world, maybe."

Shepard squinted at him. "So what happens to you when Justice takes over? Are you unconscious, or what?"

"No," the healer said with a shudder. "I'm perfectly aware of what is happening, I just can't do anything about it. It's… not a pleasant feeling."

"No, I don't suppose it would be," Shepard agreed quietly.

_Looking out through your own eyes while your body did things you couldn't control. I wonder if that's how Benezia felt under Saren and Sovereign's control…_

"Can Justice make your magic more powerful?" she asked softly. "I had a scanning program running when you… when _Justice_ was… being Justice. The readings showed extremely high levels of dark energy - more than a _person_ should be able to produce."

Anders rubbed his temples. "Not exactly," he said. "There are… things… he can do that I can't, but when he uses my abilities they don't seem any stronger. But Ka… a friend once said that it felt like a piece of the Fade in this world when Justice took over."

_Can it be possible? Was Hawke onto something? Can the Fade be some sort of weird manifestation of dark energy? It can't, can it? Dark energy doesn't work that way. Does it?_

_Shit, Shepard. _Stop_ trying to be a physicist and _start _being a soldier. Don't try and figure out why or how, just deal with the god damn problem in front of you._

"Okay," Shepard said finally. "I can see where this could be, in the words of a good friend of mine, _problematic_."

Anders gave a bark of unamused laughter.

"I know," Shepard said wryly. "It's not a very good summation, is it? How are you feeling now, apart from _guilty as hell_?"

"How do you think?" the healer snapped.

"I'll note that down as _shitty_, then, shall I?"

He snorted.

"And Justice? Is he quiet?"

Anders scowled. "Yes. For now."

"How often does he… make an appearance?"

"Shepard…"

"I'm just trying to get a handle on this, is all," Shepard told him.

"There is no _handle_," the healer exclaimed angrily. "I am a monster, an abomination. At any moment I could lose control of him again."

"Oh, get over yourself," Shepard snapped back. "I'm much more of a monster than you are."

"And how many innocent people have you killed?" Anders retorted.

"_Three hundred thousand_. Next question?"

Anders gaped at her for a second and then shut his jaw with a snap.

"Look, I'm not trying to make things harder for you," she went on quietly. "I'm trying to figure out if there's a way I can help."

Anders sighed and dropped his head back in his hands. "I appreciate the thought, but I don't see a way anyone can help me."

"Are you even willing to let me try?" Shepard demanded.

Anders stared at the ground for a long time. "Yes," he said finally, in a voice just above a whisper.

"Good. Now, I think I hear someone complaining that I left my qunari double-parked." She got to her feet and stretched the kinks out of her legs.

Anders glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.

"Long story."

"Ah," he said. "And Shepard?"

Shepard paused in the doorway and looked back at him over her shoulder.

"Really three hundred thousand?"

The regret hit her again.

_I'm sorry. So, so sorry…_

"Yes."

**-ooo-**

There was a semi-circle of people gathered about five meters out from where the dark-eyed sten stood impassively. They weren't openly hostile, but they sure as hell didn't look friendly, either.

Shepard stopped just outside the door and folded her arms on her chest. "Can I help you?" she asked the crowd sharply.

"What rioght d'you have bringin' the ox-men down 'ere?" grumbled one of them - toward the back, Shepard couldn't help but notice.

"Oh, but they're the coming thing," she said mockingly. "Smart as a mabari, but they eat less and don't drool or shed on the carpet."

She dropped her arms and shifted her weight meaningfully. "He's a _friend_," she growled. "Is that some kind of problem?"

"What are you, some kind of qunari lover?" It might have been the same voice, but Shepard didn't think so. Still far enough back in the crowd to be anonymous.

"As opposed to what, exactly?" Shepard snapped. "A lover of fine wines and a good whiskey?"

She was ready for it when the rock was lobbed, and caught it neatly. Her eyes narrowed dangerously.

"It appears somebody lost something," she said, holding up the rock between her fingers and thumb and advancing on the crowd, which drew back slowly. "Why don't you let me know who you are, _so I can give it back_?"

"We don't want the flamin' ox-men here," cried another voice.

"It's a fucking sewer," Shepard replied. "I'm sure he doesn't want to be here, either."

"So why's he here then?" This actually came from a young man near the front of the crowd, wearing a lot of dirt and a particularly thick-skulled expression.

"He's here because I had some business with the healer," she said levelly. "And he will be leaving with me when I am done."

"Flamin' doglords and ox-men!" came the cry from the middle of the throng.

Shepard shoved through the crowd and caught the front of an unwashed tunic in her fist, hauling the man back out through the rapidly expanding hole she'd made.

She eyeballed the man. "It sounds like you have a problem with my friends, good sir," she said. "Why don't you take it up with them in person, hmm?"

She shoved the man in front of the sten. "Go on," she said. "Why don't you tell him what you think of him, eh?"

The man stared up at the sten, who gazed down at him expressionlessly and folded his arms.

"Come now. You can't possibly have _nothing at all_ to say to him. What happened to _flamin' doglords and ox-men_?"

Shepard grabbed him by the back of his tunic and hauled him around to the clinic door.

"Hey Anders," she called, and watched as the healer got slowly to his feet and came forward. "See this man?" Shepard shook him by the scruff of his tunic. "He says he'd like to permanently decline all medical treatment from you. Got that?"

"Shepard…" the healer sighed.

"No, no." The Spectre's eyes gleamed nastily. "He specifically requested that he not be treated by some flamin' doglord."

"Technically, I'm not Fereldan," Anders replied, but there was a hint of a smile at the corners of his lips. "I was born in the Anderfels. My parents moved to Ferelden when I was young."

"Ah-ha," said Shepard, whirling the man to face her. "Perhaps you were intending the insult for me, then? It really doesn't apply in my case either, but if there's something you'd like to say to me, by all means, feel free."

"N-no," stuttered the man.

"No _what_?" growled Shepard, pulling him so they were nose to nose.

"No messere," he whispered, his eyes rolling madly.

"I CAN'T HEAR YOU!" Shepard bellowed.

"No messere!" the man yelped.

Shepard shoved him away. "Close enough."

She turned back to the crowd and began to pace along its inner edge, her eyes burning through the shuffling, muttering mob like a Reaper's laser.

"Now," she said quietly, "I'm going to give you people one chance, and one chance only. If any of you assholes have a problem with me, or either of these two gentlemen, speak up now and we can resolve this like civilized people and punch each other until one of us is unconscious." She stopped, and glared fiercely at them. "Otherwise, I want you fuckers to crawl back into your little holes. Got it?"

From somewhere at the far left of the crowd, a dagger whistled end over end, aimed straight for Shepard's chest. Six inches away it impacted her shields and dropped away.

With a roar, the sten drew his huge sword and charged. The crowd exploded in all directions like a dandelion in a heavy wind.

"STAND DOWN, SOLDIER!" Shepard shouted, futilely. "Anders!"

With a sigh, Anders gestured with one hand, and the massive kossith froze in the middle of a sword stroke that would cleave right through the cowering man before him, who turned and began sprinting away.

Shepard reached for Garrus grimly, settling the stock against her shoulder and taking aim on the running man's hamstring. There was the crack of the rifle report, a spray of blood, and the man pitched forward. In the same moment, the magic holding the sten in stasis faded, and he completed his swing, the monstrous blade biting into the stone and sending up sparks.

Shepard clipped the rifle back into her backplate, and jogged over to her would-be assailant, who was gasping and cursing and trying desperately to crawl away. She flipped him over with a nudge of her boot and dropped to her haunches next to him.

"I bet you feel stupid," she said conversationally, grabbing him by the collar and standing up. "Now," she continued in the same pleasant voice, dragging him back toward the clinic. "I'm going to try to keep my friend with the horns from chopping you into little bits, because a little shit like you isn't worth his time or the mess you'd make on his blade. And I'm going to have my _other_ friend the not-really-a-doglord healer fix you up, because I know he's a good man and doesn't like to see animals suffer."

The sten had a thunderous look on his face. "Not now, Sten," Shepard snapped at him. "If you want to come back some other time and hunt his ass down, that's fine. But not now."

"He attempted to kill you, basra."

"I know. And he failed," she said flatly.

Anders folded his arms on his chest. "I suppose you want me to heal him now."

"Just a sec," she said, letting go of the man's collar and kicking him in the injured leg. He howled.

"There's a saying where I come from," Shepard said, looking down at the man. "It goes _live by the sword, die by the sword_. I suggest you keep that in mind in the future."

She powered up her omni-tool and scanned the leg. "It's clean," she told Anders. "Bastard's lucky. In and out, no femur involvement."

"If this was your way of trying to cheer me up," said the healer, "I have to tell you it failed."

"Took your mind off it for a minute, didn't it?" Shepard shot back.

Anders snorted. "So would a shot of whiskey."

"Come to the Hanged Man later and I'll buy you one."


	40. Chapter 39

**Chapter Thirty-Nine**

Varric looked up from his ale as Shepard entered his suite, her current guard - the blue-eyed karasten - taking up station just outside the door.

"One more, and we could have a decent hand of Diamondback," he greeted her. "Do you think you could convince your chaperone to play?"

Shepard rolled her eyes. "It's a game, Varric. There's no purpose in it. Qunari don't do things that lack purpose."

"Of course there's a purpose," argued the dwarf persuasively. "Card games are all about strategy and cunning. And emptying your opponent's coin purse."

"Right," Shepard nodded. "And would you _really_ want to teach a man who can maintain a completely expressionless stare for hours on end how to play a game that relies on you being able to read your opponent better than he can read you?"

Hawke laughed and Varric looked sheepish. "I hadn't thought of that," he admitted.

"Didn't think you had." Shepard pulled up a chair. "But Anders should be showing up at some point. I promised to buy him a drink, and I think he'll want to see these," she pulled out the documents she'd taken from Alrik's body.

Varric reached out for them, giving a low whistle as he read over the first one. "Looks like Blondie wasn't paranoid after all," he muttered. "This Alrik really _was_ planning on turning all the mages Tranquil."

"Let me see that," Hawke snatched it from his fingers. "Andraste's asscheeks…"

"Read the other one before you do anything rash, Hawke," Shepard warned. "His plan was shot down."

"By Meredith, no less," commented Varric, raising an eyebrow. "Who, as we all know, is so deep into the crazy she can't touch bottom."

"Apparently," said Shepard dryly, "she can at least still see it."

"And the Divine," noted Hawke, with a soft puff of air. "Thank the Maker."

"This is the proof Anders wanted, but I don't think it's quite what he was looking for," Shepard said quietly, collecting the pages from the others and re-folding them. "He was hoping for something to completely polarize the issue."

Hawke shook her head grimly. "And the fact that the Divine herself declined the proposal makes the whole thing moot." She held up a hand. "Not that I'm complaining. Mother's a bit too old to go on the run if I had to break Bethany out of the Gallows."

Shepard frowned. "Why would your _mother_ have to go on the run? I can see you going with your sister to protect her, but your mother… "

"Meredith has ordered the incarceration of escaped mages' families in the past," Varric answered quietly. "Regardless of whether there was any proof that the family assisted the mage in any way."

Shepard's eyes burned. "That's fucked," she said flatly.

"That's life under the templars," said a ragged voice from the doorway.

Everyone's attention turned to the healer. It was clear Anders was still riding himself hard for his loss of control over Justice, but even that wasn't enough to blunt his hatred of the Chantry's soldiers.

"Pull up a chair, Blondie," said Varric, gesturing with his tankard. "Starkiller has something for you."

As Anders cautiously entered the room, Shepard held up the damaged letters. "Didn't get a chance to give these to you earlier today, with the fuss over the sten." The healer reached out for them with a puzzled crease in his brow and a frown on his lips. "I took them off the templar's body after you… ah, left."

She handed the pages over and gave the mage a wry grin. "I compliment you on your hand-to-hand technique, by the way," she added. "There aren't many people who can knock me on my ass with a single punch."

Anders flushed. "I… I'm sorry," he apologized gruffly. "I was…"

"I know," she interrupted. "And there's no lasting harm, so don't worry about it. Just don't expect to knock me on my ass a second time. I'm onto your wicked right."

But the mage was already reading the documents, his frown deepening.

"Meredith rejected the proposal? And the Divine herself?" he breathed. The hand holding the letters dropped to his side; his other hand came up to rub at his brow. "I… I can't believe… I thought for sure Meredith… She _hates_ mages."

"I'm sorry it isn't what you needed to convince the Grand Cleric to act," Shepard said softly. "But at least you know that the plan died with Alrik."

Anders nodded abstractedly. "I… You're right, of course, but… Perhaps the Chantry isn't beyond reason. I had thought… I had _feared_ it was." He straightened himself. "May I borrow these, Shepard?" he gestured with the documents as he re-folded them. "They may not be what I was expecting, but I think they could still be a means to open a… a dialog, of sorts, with the Grand Cleric."

Shepard waved her hand. "Be my guest. Just… be careful with them. Alrik needed to die, but I doubt the templars will see it that way."

Anders nodded again. "I will, Shepard. And… thank you."

"So," said Varric, "You going to sit down and play? We need four for Diamondback."

"I… Thanks, Varric, but I need to think about this."

"Suit yourself, Blondie. We'll be here if you change your mind."

**-ooo-**

Shepard woke up slowly. Her eyes felt like they'd been glued shut with concrete, and then the extra concrete poured into her brain via her ears. And she could only hope that nothing had pissed in her mouth, no matter _what_ it tasted like.

_I've got to remember to stick to wine if I'm going to drink that much. The beer and whiskey in this place are just _foul_._

She sat up with a groan and dragged herself out of bed and to the bathroom, where she opened the bottom tap on the boiler and splashed some warm-ish water over her face, scrubbing it roughly until her eyes could blink without the help of heavy equipment.

There was a heavy knock at the door.

Still kneeling by the tub, Shepard briefly considered ignoring it. But the ponderousness and force of the knocking could only mean one thing, and that was a summons from whichever of the unlucky antaam had the early morning shift on Shepard duty.

"Hold on just a second," she called out, levering herself to her feet and padding out to the door via a detour to the kitchen. She stuffed the end of a loaf of bread in her mouth and bit down ravenously before grasping the door handle and pulling it open.

Deep red-orange eyes regarded her sleep-tousled form critically.

"Are you ill, basra?" the ashaad asked.

Shepard took the bread out of her mouth and mumbled around the mouthful, "No, I just woke up." She forced the bread down half-chewed and tipped her head questioningly. "What are _you_ doing here?"

The ashaad thrust a hand at her. Blooms of various sizes and colors sprang haphazardly from his closed fist. Shepard stared at them uncomprehendingly for a moment.

"Uh, Ashaad," she managed, once her brain had been persuaded to join the party, "this is… unexpected."

"It is a customary mating ritual among bas, is it not?"

Shepard's hand halted in midair. "Er… what?"

"It is said that bas males prove worth to their females with flowers and…" he paused, as if uncertain of the word, "choc-o-lot. Is this not true?"

_Oh shit._

Shepard cleared her throat nervously. "Uh, yeah. That is, some males give females gifts to show, uh… interest. And I guess those gifts _are_ often flowers or chocolate."

_Although _I_ always preferred gun mods…_

"Good." He gestured slightly with the fistful of flowers. "These are for you."

_If I thought my life was complicated before, I think it just got a hell of a lot worse. _

"Um, thank you?" Shepard took the blossoms and turned away quickly, biting at her bottom lip to keep from swearing aloud. "I'll just go… put these in water."

"In water?" Ashaad sounded confused. "Their potency is better when dried."

Shepard stopped and looked down at the flowers as if they were an armed grenade. "Potency?"

"Yes. But surely even you bas know this? I have seen medicinal herbs hung to dry by merchants."

"Wait…" Shepard glanced over her shoulder at the ashaad. "These are all medicinal plants?"

"Of course," rumbled the ashaad. "What would be the purpose otherwise?"

"Of course," murmured Shepard weakly, heading for the kitchen.

She placed the flowers on the stone counter and turned around quickly, hoping to nip this in the bud. Er… so to speak.

"Ashaad, look, I appreciate…"

"The Arishok requests that you take a meal with him tonight," he interrupted. His brow wrinkled. "_Please_." The word was said with something like distaste.

Shepard blinked and looked back at the flowers. "Wait… were the flowers from you, or from the Arishok?"

The ashaad gave her a long-suffering look. "It is as I told you, basra. The Arishok has accepted your challenge. No others will. Not even I."

"I… oh. Of course."

"The karasten will bring you at the proper time," Ashaad rumbled, and withdrew with a nod to the same.

Shepard didn't bother to make a snide comment about the assumption of her cooperation. After all, there would be no purpose in it.

She shut the door slowly and leaned against it.

_What the hell is the Arishok up to now? Flowers? Dinner?_

She frowned.

_Isn't it obvious, Shepard? Customary mating rituals among bas… he's _courting_ you._

Her head hit the wood with a thump.

_Oh… fuck._

**-ooo-**

"Sebastian! How's my favorite prince in exile today?"

Sebastian looked up from peeling potatoes. "Hawke?"

"The one and only." The rogue leaned against the soot-blackened wall of the Chantry kitchens and crossed her ankles. "How would you like me to take you away from all this?" She gestured to the dim, cavernous space.

A brief smile curved the prince's lips. "To where, exactly?"

Hawke grinned. "The Bone Pit."

"Is that supposed to be an improvement?"

She laughed. "I never promised it would be someplace _nice_. Just… away from scullery duty."

"I would, Hawke, but I have a task to finish first," he gestured at the pile of potatoes beside him.

"Really?" Hawke pushed herself off the wall, contriving to look hurt. "You'd rather peel potatoes all day than face excitement and adventure by my side?"

"Unfortunately, potatoes don't peel themselves," Sebastian said with exaggerated ruefulness. "Otherwise, of course I'd be at your side, Hawke."

He hid a smile as Hawke nudged him gently aside to make room for herself at the table, reaching for a potato.

"What?!" she demanded, as she started peeling. "I'm simply expediting the process."

"Of course," he replied, deadpan. Slowly, however, his expression changed.

"You can stop staring, you know. It's not like I've never done this before," Hawke snorted.

Sebastian raised a hand to his mouth and cleared his throat. "It's just… Hawke, you kill things with those daggers."

"Not in the last few hours," she assured him.

"What?" she gave him a defiant look. "Look, they're clean, all right?"

Sebastian shook his head. At least the potatoes were due to be boiled…

**-ooo-**

Shepard stoked the fire under the boiler and enjoyed the hottest bath she could stand, scrubbing her scalp until her head felt as though it might finally be occupying the same physical dimension as the rest of her. Then, damp hair wrapped snugly in one of her flimsy excuses for a towel, she crawled back in bed with the book on ancient sites in the Free Marches. Occasionally, her mind would wander to _flowers_, _dinner_, or _Arishok_, and she would be filled with a mild sense of panic.

After about the seventh time this happened, Shepard set down the book and leaned her head back against the headboard.

_What the hell is wrong with you, Shepard? You faced down a Reaper armed with only a targeting laser. Tell me how the fuck you could _possibly_ be intimidated by a two and a quarter meter tall humanoid with big horns._

She scowled to herself. _Well, for one thing, the Reaper didn't want to _mate_ with me…_

_Oh, come on, Shepard. It's not like you're a blushing virgin for fuck's sake! You had quite the reputation in N-school - fight hard, play harder, remember? So what is it about this situation that freaks you out so god damn much? Isabela doesn't freak you out, and she's pursuing you with almost as much single-minded determination as the Arishok._

There was a spate of irritated knocking at the door, and Shepard heaved herself out of bed to answer it, a frown creasing her features. Maybe her neighbors had finally gotten tired of stepping around her living door stop.

Angry hazel eyes greeted her on the far side of the door when she opened it. Without waiting to be invited, Asa crossed the threshold, shutting the door behind him with more force than necessary.

"What do you think you're doing, Shepard?!" he demanded harshly.

"Getting smoked for no reason?" Shepard offered sarcastically.

"I just finished setting the ashaad's arm. The Arishok broke it!"

Shepard held out both hands. "I haven't left the apartment," she said defensively. "Why don't you ask _him_ what _he_ thinks _he's_ doing? He sent the ashaad with flowers for me, and has asked me to dinner." She paused. "Well, the qunari version of _asked_, anyway. You know, presumptively demanded my presence, but with the addition of _please_ at the end."

Asa set his jaw pugnaciously. "And you said no."

"I didn't say anything," Shepard retorted. "I already knew there wasn't any point in arguing."

That settled the healer's ruffled feathers a bit. His face drew into a frown, accentuating the scar down his cheek. "I don't understand."

"That makes two of us. Why the hell would he break Ashaad's arm?"

"They were sparring," muttered Asa. "It was an accident."

Shepard scowled. "So why come up here and yell at _me_ for it?"

Asa glowered at her. "Because _you're_ one of the only reasons he loses his control like that!"

Shepard folded her arms on her chest. "I don't know what to tell you. It wasn't me this time. I even thanked him for the flowers."

The frown was back on the healer's face, and he began to pace nervously. It was the most out-of-sorts Shepard had ever seen the man. "I don't understand it… Could the ashaad have challenged him over you?"

"No. He wouldn't."

Asa shot her a look. "And you'd know, would you?" he said sarcastically.

"Ashaad's told me on two separate occasions now that nobody else will accept my challenge. Not even him."

The healer's head snapped up. "What do you mean, not even him?"

Shepard shrugged. "I don't know. That's just what he said." Her face softened. "How is he? Was the break a bad one?"

Asa paced some more. "It was clean and easy to set. It should heal fine," he answered absently. He stopped and looked back at Shepard. "You're sure that's what he said?"

"Yeah, that's what he said."

"In what context?" Asa pressed.

"I thought at first the flowers were from him. When he corrected me he reminded me that no one else would accept my challenge, not even him." She shrugged again. "That's all there was."

Asa ran his hands through his hair until it practically stood on end. "Shepard, _please_. For my sanity, and the safety of everything around us… please _consider_ indulging the Arishok."

"_Indulging_ him! What about me?" Shepard strode toward the healer.

"You don't actually find him unattractive, do you?" Asa asked sharply. "Believe me, I'm good at body language, too."

"That isn't the point!"

"Isn't it?"

"He's not my type!"

"Really?" Asa raised an eyebrow.

Shepard scowled. "I don't want to have sex with him!"

"Why not?"

"I just don't."

Asa huffed. "That's not a reason."

"He's an arrogant, stubborn, bull-headed jackass," Shepard retorted. "How's that for a reason?"

The healer held up a finger. "But you find him physically attractive."

"So?"

"That's all that counts. I've told you - sex is a purely physical exercise for the kossith. Affection is not necessary."

"That's not… it doesn't… I don't…"

"Are you trying to tell me you've never had sex for purely physical reasons before?" Asa asked, his voice and expression skeptical.

"Well… no."

The healer spread his hands in a _so what's the problem_ gesture. "It's not like I'm asking you to consider marrying him, Shepard."

"Look, just… accept that I don't want to sleep with the Arishok and that I have reasons."

"Maybe I would if you could tell me what they are, apart from your inherent contrariness."

"Because he's not Thane, all right!" Shepard glared at the healer, hands fisted at her side.

Asa looked nonplussed by this. "What?" he asked, uncertainly.

"He's not Thane," Shepard repeated, softly.

Asa frowned. "Who is Thane?"

"The man I cared for more than life itself."

"Your… husband?"

"We weren't… it's… nevermind." Shepard looked away from him.

"A lover," the healer surmised.

"Yes," said Shepard. "He… died a few months ago."

"Ah," said Asa, gently. "A recent loss."

"Yes." Shepard's voice tightened as the lump in her throat grew exponentially.

"I see. Too soon for you to contemplate a future without him."

"I wasn't supposed to _have_ a future!" Shepard snarled. "I'm supposed to be dead!"

The healer cocked his head slightly. "I thought you were against suicide."

"It wasn't suicide. It was being caught inside a giant explosion that hopefully ended a war and saved the galaxy."

Asa stared at her shrewdly.

Shepard expelled a long, loud breath. "There was a weapon. When I activated it, there was an explosion. And then I woke up here in Kirkwall."

"But…" the healer looked baffled, "how?"

"Believe me, I wish I knew."

**-ooo-**

"Ugh," said Hawke, digging at a crevice in her dagger's hilt. "There's still potato… _juice_ in here."

"It's just starch," soothed Sebastian. "It won't harm the metal."

"I know," admitted the rogue, making a face, "but it's just so… icky."

"Hawke, a little starch is nothing in comparison to some of the things I've seen on your blades."

"You're an archer. You wouldn't understand," Shepard cradled the blade to her bosom before replacing it in the scabbard strapped to her back.

The prince rolled his eyes. "Who else is coming with us?" he asked, to change the subject.

"I thought we'd pick up Fenris."

"Just the three of us?" Sebastian sounded surprised. "The problem must be a fairly minor one, then?"

Hawke nodded. "Just a bunch of walking corpses." She patted her belt pouch. "I had Tomwise make me some oil flasks. We'll just go in and burn them out."

Sebastian gave her a look. "You have an odd definition of the word _minor_, Hawke. What about Shepard? She doesn't need oil flasks to burn things."

Hawke shrugged. "I don't know what her guard dog would do if she tried to leave the city."

The archer looked puzzled. "What guard dog?"

"You mean you haven't heard? I thought everyone in Kirkwall was talking about it by now."

Sebastian shook his head. "It hasn't made it as far as the Chantry cloisters."

The rogue tipped her head. "Shepard seems to have seriously annoyed the Arishok this time. She's had a qunari guard ever since she left the compound."

"To what purpose?" Sebastian frowned.

"Qunari, Sebastian," Hawke reminded him. "Tall, muscular, and very reticent when it comes to explaining themselves."

"Shepard must not be happy about it."

"Believe me, Sebastian, she's not the only one."

**-ooo-**

"Hmm. This could be something."

Shepard sat up a little straighter and keyed up her omni-tool, laying the open book on the bed in front of her. "A fortress in the Vimmarks northeast of Cumberland, built into the rock itself. Not much else known due to the ruin's inaccessibility. Didn't show up in the Chantry's library, either."

She tapped in a few notes and then brought up a map to refresh her memory of the area. She groaned.

"Shit. What I wouldn't give for the Mako right now."

_Sure, Shepard. And if you're going to wish for impossible things, why not just wish for the whole Normandy? Or, better yet, wish yourself back home…_

She snorted.

For the third time that day, there was a knocking at Shepard's door. Her brow furrowed.

"_Now_ who is it?" she muttered, swinging her legs to the floor.

The tapping was hesitant, which ruled out another visit from one of the qunari - human _or_ kossith. It also made it unlikely to be Hawke, Varric or Isabela, who all believed that a good knock should have rhythm, or Sebastian, Anders, or Fenris, who all employed a single business-like rap.

"Merrill," Shepard guessed, as she reached for the doorknob.

But the human on the opposite side was unfamiliar to Shepard. She raised an eyebrow and fixed a politely neutral expression on her face.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"Messere… Shepard?" the man replied, his eyes skittering nervously to the brooding qunari beside the door.

"That would be me," Shepard confirmed.

Wordlessly, he handed over a folded piece of parchment, sealed with a blob of reddish wax. As Shepard took it from him, he bobbed something that fell between a nod and a bow and withdrew hastily, eyes once again roving to the karasten.

Shepard stared down at the page in her hand. Curiously, she peeled up the wax seal and unfolded it.

_Messere Shepard,  
Viscount Marlowe Dumar requests your attendance upon the hour. Your cooperation in this matter is appreciated.  
Seneschal Bran  
Office of the Viscount_

Shepard sighed. Still, she supposed it was only a matter of time before she came to the notice of what passed for government here in Kirkwall. Hawke's friend Aveline could only do so much to stonewall the ruler of the city, after all.

She glanced at the karasten, frowning.

"I have to go up to the Keep," she told the giant. "I'm afraid it's non-negotiable."

The karasten merely glanced at her.

"I don't know how long I'll be," she continued, feeling a bit as if she were talking to a piece of furniture. "I may be late for my…" _date_ "…appointment with the Arishok."

The karasten turned his head and gave her his full attention. His blue eyes regarded her appraisingly.

"What?" she said defensively. "It's the damn viscount! I can't just ignore him." She thrust the missive at the soldier. "Read for yourself."

"No," rumbled the giant, making no move to look at the page.

"Look, I can't argue with you over this," Shepard began, but the karasten raised a hand to halt her.

"You will go to the foolish bas who sits on his foolish throne," he said. "This is understood."

Relief flooded Shepard as she realized that the karasten would not interfere. "Good," she said, and added, "Thank you."

The karasten nodded.

Shepard retreated back inside, located a cleaning cloth, and set to polishing her armor.

**-ooo-**

Fenris was also skeptical of Hawke's idea of a _minor_ problem.

"Walking corpses?" he said slowly. He squinted his eyes at the rogue. "Tell me again why you accepted partial ownership of that accursed place."

Hawke shrugged. "I've never owned a mine before?" she answered flippantly, but they all knew the real reason - the Fereldan miners and their less-than-sympathetic Orlesian boss, Hubert, who would cheerfully work them until they dropped.

"Are you sure the three of us will be sufficient to the task?" Fenris asked.

Hawke sighed. "What's with you two?" she demanded. "It's just a few dead people."

Fenris and Sebastian exchanged a glance. Hawke saw it and rolled her eyes.

"Isabela is off hunting her missing relic. Aveline is tied up with guard business. Shepard is plagued with qunari. Anders is still upset over his little problem with Justice. Merrill is off somewhere in Kirkwall - probably in the Viscount's gardens again, or maybe someone's airing cupboard."

"And Varric?" Sebastian suggested.

"Can't go," Hawke said firmly.

"Merchant's Guild?" murmured Fenris.

"Something like that," replied Hawke evasively. "So it's just the three of us."

"All right, Hawke," said Fenris. "The three of us it is."

**-ooo-**

Shepard swung her arms and rolled her shoulders to settle her armor. She hadn't combed her hair when it was wet, and it had dried in funny little twists and cowlicks, making it irregularly wavy rather than the smooth dark cap it normally was. It was also getting long - nearly brushing the tops of her shoulders now - and if she didn't find a way off-planet soon, she was going to have to find someone to cut it for her. She'd botched the attempt too many times in the past to consider trying it herself.

She peered at herself in the smoky, polished metal mirror and grimaced.

_This is as good as it's going to get, Shepard._

Resolutely, she turned away from the mirror and out through her bedroom, not bothering to retrieve Garrus from the locked chest. Spectres might be allowed to wear their weapons to meetings with heads of state, but her Spectre status meant nothing here, and she remembered all too well the fate of the qunari delegation's weapons - bound into their sheaths. If she went to the Viscount's Office armed, no doubt somebody would try to take her weapon off her, and there would be trouble. Better to leave it at home.

She kept the dagger that Hawke had given her though, and her omni-tool was fastened in place. They might take the dagger from her, but she knew it wouldn't occur to them to remove the 'tool.

She stopped in her tracks, a meter or so from the front door.

_When did you start thinking this was going to go south?_ If the viscount wanted to imprison her, he probably wouldn't have made an appointment to do so. Still, Shepard couldn't shake the unsettled feeling in her gut - the one that told her that things were about to get sideways.

_Be charming. Be diplomatic. Do not swear. And be ready to move when the shit hits the fan…_

Shepard stepped out into the hallway and locked the door behind her. As the karasten moved away from his post on the wall and settled in behind her left shoulder - _Vakarian's spot, always Vakarian's_ - she stopped and turned to face him.

"I really think it's best if you stay here," she said evenly. "You qunari seem to… upset people."

"They fear us," corrected the karasten.

"That too," Shepard admitted. "So, please, in the interests of not upsetting anyone, could you stay right here?"

The karasten's expression didn't even flicker. "No."

"Please?"

"No," he repeated.

"Pretty please? With sugar on top?"

That caused a wrinkle to appear in the kossith's brow. "No," he said with some finality. "It is my duty to keep you safe, basra."

Shepard folded her arms. "Nervous people do stupid things, Karasten," she said. "You will make people jumpy."

But the karasten wasn't listening. He was staring over her shoulder with narrowed eyes. Shepard's brow rose, and she glanced behind her curiously.

"What is it?" she said, seeing only an empty hallway.

The giant's blue eyes narrowed further. "Your weapon."

"What?"

"It is missing?"

Shepard tipped her head in the direction of the door. "I left it locked up."

"Why? This is foolish."

"Because they will probably not let me wear it to see the viscount, and I don't want to give people the idea they can take my weapon off me whenever they feel like it," she answered. "It's called _avoiding a fight_."

He grunted. "This is why you cannot be allowed on your own."

Shepard rolled her eyes. "_Diplomacy_, Karasten. I know it's not a qunari strong point."

She turned around and led the way out of the building. "You do know they will try to take your weapon from you at the Keep, don't you?"

The kossith made a grumbling assent.

"And I know you won't let them," she went on. "Much as I wouldn't."

This time, the giant remained silent.

"Which puts me in a very difficult position, as you can imagine."

Still nothing.

Shepard glanced over her shoulder. "You see, I'm going to have to wade into the middle of the resulting fight and try to stop it. I'm not about to watch you get cut down, but I'm not going to let you cut down some stupid guard who's just trying to do his job, either."

She inhaled sharply, and smiled sadly to herself. "_Problematic_, as a friend of mine used to say."

They continued across the bazaar. Shepard nodded to a few familiar faces as they passed.

As they started up the main stairway to Hightown, Shepard added in the same even tones, "You're probably going to get me killed."

The silence was deafening. Shepard sighed.

_Okay. Sideways it is, then…_

**-ooo-**

"What has you so cheerful, Hawke?" Fenris asked, eyeing the rogue doubtfully as she sauntered along, humming to herself.

"Mother hasn't forced me into a dress in over a week," Hawke told him. "And I haven't had to sit through one of those endless teas, trying to keep from yawning while some noblewoman and her son make idiotic remarks about the weather and the trouble with servants these days."

"Ah, yes. The _'art of conversation'_ as practiced by the gentry," said Sebastian with a faint smile. "At least it isn't gossip and snide comments about other nobles."

Hawke sighed gustily. "Oh, there's usually some of that as well."

"Dissertations on the latest fashions from Orlais?"

The rogue rolled her eyes. "Thankfully, no. I expect they avoid the topic, given my singular lack of fashion sense."

"I had thought such conversation to be an affectation among the magisters," Fenris admitted. "I see I was mistaken."

Sebastian laughed. "I believe it is an affliction that strikes the wealthy and powerful - or those who wish to be seen as such."

"It's irritating, is what it is," Hawke declared. "Mother seems to forget that I wasn't raised to be idle, vapid-headed marriage bait."

"Charity, Hawke," Sebastian reminded her gently.

Hawke made a face. "Blame it on my peasant upbringing."

"Has your mother given up on your betrothal, then?" Fenris inquired, slapping away a butterfly that fluttered too close.

"I very much doubt it," Hawke sighed. "She's just focusing for the moment on her own prospects," Hawke smiled fondly. "She met a _nice man_ in the market."

"For your sake, Hawke, I shall pray the courtship is an extended one," said Sebastian solemnly.

**-ooo-**

"State your business."

The guards on the doors to the Keep shifted slightly as she approached, and one of them issued the challenge even before Shepard was within normal conversational distance.

Shepard withdrew the seneschal's note and handed it over, taking care to make her movements slow and non-threatening.

_Here it comes…_

As one guard frowned over the note while the other watched the karasten suspiciously, Shepard assumed parade rest and addressed them both. "But before I meet with the viscount, I would first like to speak with Guard-Captain Aveline. Please send someone for her."

The guards exchanged glances.

_Good. They're uncertain._

"You know the Guard-Captain?" one of them ventured after a pause.

"Of course," Shepard answered with a lift of one eyebrow. "She is another of Hawke's friends. We've met a number of times."

Shepard was not by nature a name-dropper, but she _was_ a tactician. And these names certainly did their jobs. One of the guard stuck his head through the doors and murmured a few words to someone inside.

_Tacky, boys. Let's see what you do when I raise the stakes…_

"No doubt you wish me to relinquish my weapon," she said calmly, unfastening the sheathed dagger from her belt and handing it to the nearest guard.

He fumbled with it as if it were a lump of hot coal, and the expression on his face said he'd rather have a handful of shit. Hawke always breezed in, fully armed, without so much as a nod to the guards. Clearly, he was thinking that someone might find himself in a spot of difficulty if it appeared he'd overstepped his authority.

It was several minutes before Aveline appeared. Shepard did nothing in the interim but wait, hands clasped loosely behind her back, expression carefully blank. Every marine recruit had done a stint of guard duty at some time or another. If you were good, or simply lucky, you learned to shut everything down until you were nothing more than a breathing statue. A herd of purple elephants could stampede by and, provided they were minding their own business and not presenting a threat, you wouldn't even blink.

These boys hadn't perfected it yet. They kept glancing nervously from Shepard to the karasten and back again. And when Aveline appeared, they stammered over their words and interrupted each other.

Shepard pitched her voice over theirs easily. "Captain," she said, "I appreciate you coming out to see me."

"Shepard?" Aveline was surprised, but she was a professional. There was only a tiny flicker of movement in her eyes.

"I need a favor."

"Oh?" Aveline folded her arms over her breastplate and shifted her weight - not a good sign.

"I can't park my qunari out here. People tend to try and pick fights with him. Could you escort him up to the viscount's office and make sure he doesn't stab anything important while I meet with Dumar?"

"He's an armed qunari," said the guard-captain flatly. "Absolutely not."

"You'd rather a mob form out here, then?" Shepard pressed. "I already had to disperse one down in Darktown."

Aveline scowled. "That was Darktown."

"And the nobles are going to take it any better? You'll be getting complaints for weeks."

By the twitch of the guardswoman's lips, Shepard knew she'd scored.

"Besides," Shepard added, "we're a little too close to the Chantry for comfort. You know what happened the last time qunari came to the Keep."

It was a low blow, but a necessary one. Aveline's scowl deepened. "Will he relinquish his weapon?" she asked.

Shepard gave her a look. "What do you think?" She tipped her head to the guard holding her dagger. "But I gave up mine."

The guard's throat moved as he swallowed hard.

"I see." Aveline fixed Shepard with a measured stare. "Can you tell him to go back to the compound?"

"Already tried."

"Why is he here?"

Shepard shrugged. "He thinks he's my babysitter."

"Your what?" Aveline frowned at the term.

"Nanny?" Shepard tried.

The guard-captain blinked. "_He's_ your nanny?" she said incredulously. Her posture stiffened slightly. "Aren't you a little old for a nanny?"

Shepard jerked a thumb over her shoulder. "Tell _him_ that."

Aveline raised a hand to rub her forehead. "And I thought Hawke was bad," she muttered.

She lifted her head and there was a steely glint in her blue-grey eyes. "Guye!" she barked. "Go get the lieutenant and guardsman Brennan."

"Yes, Guard-Captain!" The guard named Guye snapped off a salute and hurried inside.

As soon as he left, Aveline let her eyes rove over the immobile kossith. "How in Andraste's name did you wind up with a qunari nanny, Shepard?"

"It's a long and embarrassing story. You probably don't want to hear it," Shepard offered.

Aveline's eyes narrowed. "Shorten it."

Shepard shrugged again. "I argued with the Arishok."

"That's all?"

Shepard coughed sheepishly. "I may have, er… broken my hand on his jaw once."

The guard's eyes widened. "You _struck_ the Arishok?! And you're still alive?"

"Dying would have been a lot less complicated, believe me."

**-ooo-**

Hawke took the time to talk briefly with Jansen, the spokesman and de facto leader of the Fereldan miners. He was wearing a weary expression that said _what else can this mine throw at us_?

"Corpses," muttered Fenris, not quite under his breath. "Does she have any idea how much I hate corpses?"

"Aye, it is unsettling."

The elf shook his hair out of his eyes. "It's just another reminder of how the magisters will pervert anything to their will. They even make slaves of the dead."

"You believe a mage is behind this, then?" Sebastian asked. "This mine seems cursed enough without adding maleficar."

Fenris shifted uneasily. "My point. Magisters were here once. They may no longer be present, but the evil that they did still lingers in the very stone of this place."

Hawke was returning, her eyes flitting from one of her friends' faces to the other. "Well," she said, dropping her hands to her hips, "don't you two look cheerful."

"Let's get this over with," Fenris growled, stalking off.

Hawke watched him go. "Someone's a bit touchy today, isn't he?"

Sebastian cleared his throat gently. "I don't think he likes this place much."

Hawke snorted. "_I_ don't like this place much, and I own half of it." She loosened her daggers in their sheaths and gestured with her head for the archer to follow her after the elf.

"Jansen says the trouble started after they cleared the rubble from an old, unused shaft at the far western end of the mine camp," Hawke went on, with a shake of her head. "I think I'm going to tell him not to open any new areas until I have a chance to check them out first, and Hubert be damned."

"Not a bad idea," Sebastian agreed. "These things do seem to crop up every time they expand."

They'd caught up to Fenris, who was waiting at the mouth of the mine's main entrance. "We'll clear out the main tunnels first, and then go take a look at this new shaft they uncovered. I'm guessing they disturbed something that didn't want to be bothered."

Fenris grimaced but gave a nod of acknowledgment.

"And remember - I have oil flasks. If you can draw a group of them to you, drop back and let me light them up."

Sebastian smiled briefly. "You know, Hawke… I think Shepard might be rubbing off on you. You used to just charge in, grinning madly, and let the tactics take care of themselves."

Hawke gave him a mad grin as she pushed past to take point.

"Varric always did say she'd be trouble."

**-ooo-**

"Serah… Shepard, isn't it?" said the elegantly dressed man before her. "I am Viscount Dumar's senschal. I appreciate your prompt response to his request."

_Ah. Hawke's version of Udina. Although at least _he_ doesn't look as though he's suffering from painful hemorrhoids._

Shepard had settled automatically into parade rest, letting her eyes take in whatever they could while the man was speaking. Seneschal Bran was a tall, fit man - Shepard's first surprise - with deep red hair and hooded brown eyes. His features were chiseled and patrician, and his appearance neat, almost to the point of fussiness. Shepard's second surprise was that she couldn't read those eyes, or the expression on the coolly attractive face, beyond a superficial sort of weary disdain.

_Watch it, Shepard. This is not Donnel Udina. There is more than just another conniving, scheming politician behind that mask. He's shrewd._

"Of course," Shepard replied politely.

"I am afraid your…" and at this Shepard noted a breath of hesitation, as Bran's eyes flicked over to the elephant in the room, "…friend… will have to remain in the outer offices, however."

Shepard could only pray that the karasten understood the finer points of military discretion as she answered, "That will not be a problem, Seneschal. The karasten is currently employed as my bodyguard."

She did not look back at the kossith as she was ushered forward by a slight wave of the seneschal's hand. Bran opened the door to the viscount's study for Shepard with the other hand, and followed closely behind her as she entered.

Shepard remembered the viscount from the mission to rescue the Arishok's missing delegation. The ruler of Kirkwall looked more drawn than she remembered, the gray face more lined and haggard as he turned to look at her.

_Uneasy is the head that wears the spiky coronet, eh?_

She clasped her hands behind her back and gave the viscount a deep nod. "You wished to see me, Viscount?"

"You are one of Hawke's companions, aren't you?" the man asked - rhetorically, Shepard had to assume. "I seem to recall that you were of some assistance in that qunari debacle."

"I wish it could have ended better, but yes, sir," Shepard responded.

Dumar paced a few steps. "You appear to have established ties with the qunari…" He stopped abruptly and turned to face her again. "Let me be blunt, Shepard. Are you a convert to this qun of theirs?"

"No, sir," Shepard said easily. "I'm a soldier, and not psychologically suited to philosophy."

The man's pale blue eyes raked over her. "Yes, but _whose_ soldier?" he muttered sourly, under his breath.

"And why would a soldier need to employ a qunari bodyguard?" Bran's voice interjected from behind her, colored faintly with sarcasm.

Shepard did not bother to turn to look at him. She kept her eyes on the viscount, instead. "I did not say _I _employed him, merely that he was _employed as_ a bodyguard," she corrected.

The correction clearly did not sit well with the viscount. His expression was one of both surprise and unease. "If you do not employ him," Dumar wondered aloud, "then who has such influence over the qunari?"

There was a soft snort from Bran. "Hawke?" the seneschal suggested.

Shepard smiled grimly. "Not Hawke."

The viscount's unease intensified, and he inhaled sharply. "The Arishok," he said quietly.

Shepard dipped her head in acknowledgment.

"And why would the leader of the qunari assign _you_ a bodyguard?" Bran asked sharply.

Shepard shrugged briefly, hands still clasped behind her back. "He has some kind of interest in me."

"And what would that be?" Shepard could feel the seneschal's eyes boring into her back, but still refused to give the man any sort of validation, apart from answering his questions.

"You'd have to ask him," she said evenly.

Bran snorted again.

Dumar frowned. "That sounds more like a _prison guard_ than a bodyguard," he said slowly, watching Shepard closely.

"Perhaps," Shepard admitted. "But so far, all they do is follow me around and try to kill anyone who attacks me."

"Kill?" Dumar's face blanched.

"_Try to_ kill," Shepard corrected. "I prefer to handle my own problems."

The blue eyes raked her again. "Yes," murmured the viscount thoughtfully.

"But you were a prisoner of the qunari for several days, were you not?" Bran again, damn him.

"I was briefly incapacitated due to dehydration. The Arishok had his healer treat my illness. Evidently, he doesn't think much of the medical professionals in this town." Two could play this game.

"And now you have the qunari at your command."

Shepard smiled again. "Hardly," she said. "As I said, I have a qunari who follows me around and tries to kill people who attack me. _My_ demands are of no consequence."

Dumar raised a hand to rub at his chin. "That is… not a comforting thought," he said.

"It's annoying, is what it is," Shepard informed him.

The viscount sighed. "So you're telling me I have a qunari roaming my streets prepared to offer random violence to my citizens?"

"Not random, no," Shepard replied. "And how is that news? You have an entire enclave of them living within the city's borders."

"You would choose to remind me."

"I'd think it would be hard to forget."

The blue eyes glittered briefly. No, there was no way for this man to forget the potential hostile force occupying his city.

Bran suddenly came into view in the periphery of her left eye. The seneschal was remarkably cat-footed.

"You are not from the Free Marches, I understand," the viscount said.

"No."

"From Orlais, or so Hawke would have the Templars believe," replied Bran, folding his arms over his chest.

"Hawke enjoys a joke on occasion," Shepard answered calmly. _Now where was this going?_

"So you are not from Orlais?" Dumar asked. "Another Ferelden refugee?"

Shepard tried not to shift her weight impatiently. "No."

"Tevinter, perhaps?" suggested Bran thoughtfully.

"No. I'm not from Thedas." Shepard held up one hand to forestall further questioning. "And before you can ask, I'm not sure how I ended up in Kirkwall, but it wasn't by choice." She paused for a moment and then added, "Hawke seems to believe it was some kind of magic." After all, wasn't magic the answer to most things in Thedas?

The viscount and his seneschal exchanged a glance. "Were you familiar with the qunari before you came to Kirkwall?" Bran pressed.

Shepard sighed. She was beginning to get irritated. "No. I'd never seen or heard of them before Hawke brought me with her to speak to the Arishok." She channeled her impatience into a straightening of her back - a sign anyone who knew her would deem a shift in Shepard's personal Defcon rating. "With all due respect, sir… could we please get to the point of this visit?"

Dumar straightened his shoulders as well. "Very well," he said crisply. "The political balance here in Kirkwall is… delicate… at the moment."

"You are doing everything in your power to complicate that," stated Bran, flatly. The viscount shot him a look, and the seneschal subsided.

"The presence of an… unknown quantity… has been cause for some concern," Dumar went on. "I wished to establish for myself where you fit in all this; whose agency you represent."

Shepard met his eyes unflinchingly. "My own."

Dumar nodded. "Your intentions are to return to your own land?"

"As soon as is absolutely possible."

He nodded again. "I suppose I must be satisfied with that," Dumar sighed.

"Yes," agreed Shepard, "you must."

Bran snorted yet again.

"Are we finished here?" Shepard asked. "Sir?"

"Yes, I believe so," Dumar answered. "You may go."

Shepard gave him a nod - shallower by far than her first - and turned to leave, the seneschal once again on her heels.

As they passed out into the outer chamber, Bran spoke.

"Are you always so disrespectful to your betters?"

Shepard thought of the Council. "When they deserve it."

"Really? I'm surprised you haven't been stripped of your rank by now."

Shepard tried not to grind her teeth. "Can't argue with results," she said flatly.

_Well, technically, you can argue with results. And ignore results. Dismiss results. Claim results are delusional. Until you _need_ results…_

Shepard nodded to Aveline, who waited with the karasten. "Thanks for keeping him from ruining the carpet," she said to the guardswoman. "You," she thrust her chin at the karasten. "Let's go." She shot a look at Bran. "Politicians give me hives."

* * *

_A/N:_

_Sorry it took so long for an update. I wrote about half this chapter and hated it, so I scrapped it and started over. Life may also have happened in a more-or-less unpleasant way. _

_Anyway, here it is. Still not what I wanted, but... meh._

_Also, since I haven't brought it up in a while... Thanks to everyone who has reviewed. I appreciate the comments, and I'm glad so many of you are enjoying the story._

_Hope to have the next update posted much more quickly._


	41. Chapter 40

**Chapter Forty**

"The management would like to thank you for not stabbing anyone," Shepard told the karasten as they made their way down the stairs to Hightown.

"I judged your armor and ability sufficient against a single lightly armed opponent," responded the karasten disdainfully.

"Lightly armed?" Shepard asked, eyes narrowing. "_Bran_. Let me guess… boot sheath?"

"Yes."

Shepard nodded. "I knew he was a little bastard the moment I laid eyes on him." Her lips curved wryly. "And thank you _so much_ for that vote of confidence, Karasten."

"I have seen you fight."

"So… why are you here again?"

"The Arishok requires that you to come to no harm. You make," the karasten's voice was tart, "unwise decisions."

Shepard rolled her eyes. "Like?"

"You should not have given up your weapon, basra."

Shepard chuckled. It was an evil sound. As they passed one of the heavy trellises near Hawke's estate, her left hand flashed out, severing a thick branch from the ancient vines that grew over them.

"I didn't," she said simply.

**-ooo-**

There was a tinkle of broken glass, a _whoomph_ of flame, and Hawke's laughter.

Sebastian sighted on another walking skeleton and released his bowstring. With a sickening crunch barely audible over the crackle of burning oil, the skeleton collapsed into a pile of scattered bones.

Fenris was grimly wading through those enemies who were not yet alight, swinging his sword, the lyrium under his skin glowing icy and pale.

This was the largest concentration of undead they'd had to face so far, and Sebastian was pretty sure that Hawke had just used her final oil flask. But the rogue still laughed merrily as she ducked and slashed and stabbed her way through the animated corpses. Sebastian picked off another creature set to strike at Hawke's back, seamlessly nocking another arrow as soon as the first was released. She whooped and waved a thanks to him before leaping acrobatically back into the fray.

Hawke was crazy. Absolutely crazy.

Light from the fire haloed her, gilding her armor, her blades, her skin; burnishing her hair and reflecting in her eyes.

And also unbelievably, undeniably beautiful.

_Andraste help me._

**-ooo-**

The karasten paused in mid-stride, his eyes flashing from the fallen branch to the Spectre and back again. "You are skilled at hiding your weapons," he admitted after a moment. "I was unaware of its presence."

"Would you care to re-evaluate your former statement?" Shepard asked sweetly.

"No."

Shepard stopped so fast the karasten nearly collided with her. "What do you mean, no?" she demanded.

"You are more than skilled enough to engage a single lightly armed and unarmored opponent," the qunari clarified. "Your hidden blade does not change this."

"I wasn't talking about that statement," Shepard huffed. "I meant the one about unwise decisions."

The karasten appeared to think this over. "In this instance, you behaved prudently, keeping a weapon in reserve," he ruled finally.

"Right," said Shepard, mollified. "Remember that, the next time your boss insists I need a babysitter."

"You are perhaps more cunning than you appear," said the karasten approvingly.

Shepard smiled. "Thanks for noticing."

The blue eyes regarded her levelly. "Cunning is not wisdom, basra."

Shepard stared at him for a long minute, and then shrugged. "But a backhanded compliment is still a compliment," she noted. "And Karasten?"

"Yes?"

"Go take a long walk off a short pier."

**-ooo-**

"See?" Hawke panted, resting her palms against her knees as she tried to catch her breath. "That wasn't so bad."

Fenris wiped the sweat out of his eyes and glanced up at the rogue. "We're all still alive, I suppose."

Sebastian continued winding a strip of cloth around a deep slash in the elf's arm. "By the Maker's grace," he murmured in thanks.

"Now all we have to do is find out what caused all this and kill it."

"If the dwarf were here, he'd have some kind of comment for that," Fenris noted.

"But you don't?" Hawke raised an eyebrow.

"No," the elf replied dryly. "I'm too exhausted to think of one."

"What about you, Sebastian?" Hawke teased.

"The Chantry discourages uncharitable comments," he replied, although he couldn't help the way one corner of his mouth twitched upward.

"Spoilsports."

**-ooo-**

Shepard expected to be escorted to the Arishok's library, and felt her brows drawing downward as she was instead led into a part of the compound she was not familiar with. She passed what was clearly barracks, or one of them; rows of bedrolls under heavy canvas tenting, neat and precise enough to please any bastard of an officer - NCO up to admiral - on inspection. Further along was a simple tent, only slightly larger than the library, with a swath of heavy red cloth draped over the entrance as a kind of awning.

_Crap. The Arishok's _quarters_. You'd better be on your game, Shepard._

The karasten stood to one side, offering Shepard the briefest of nods.

Shepard squared her shoulders and entered the tent.

As in the library, the interior of the tent was lit by hanging oil lamps that gave off a buttery yellow light. They illuminated a spartan space, hardly different from the barracks outside. On one side of the tent there was a bedroll, as neat as any of his soldiers'. Beside it were an armor stand and a weapons rack where a monstrous ax rested next to an equally monstrous sword. There was a simple chest - no more than a crate with a hinged lid, really - that reminded Shepard of nothing so much as a recruit's footlocker.

On the other side of the tent was a low table set with covered dishes and a brazier on which an iron teapot simmered.

And the Arishok.

The giant was as he always was; inscrutable golden eyes and a kind of relaxed intensity.

"Shanedan… Shepard," he greeted her in a deep rumble.

_You'd think I would be happy to be upgraded from 'basra'. So why am I suddenly a hell of a lot more nervous?_

"Shanedan, Arishok," she responded politely with a nod.

Those eyes raked over her from head to toe, doing nothing to quell Shepard's nervousness.

"Your hair is like kas-ataashi," he noted clinically.

Shepard blinked rapidly. "Pardon?" she asked.

The Arishok stepped closer to her, reaching out to lift a lock of her hair with one taloned finger. "Volcanic glass," he explained, twisting the lock slightly to catch the light from the oil lamps. "Kas-ataashi - the dragon's claws - in our tongue."

Shepard felt her face flush slightly. "Er… thank you."

_Did he really just compare my hair to obsidian? Flowers, dinner and what was almost a compliment? Oh, shit. Asa is going to _kill_ me._

The Arishok let the lock fall. "Sit," he said, gesturing to the low table. And added, "_please_," as if his mother had just reminded him to use his manners.

Shepard rubbed her gloved palms against her thighs nervously, and moved hesitantly to the spot indicated. The Arishok stalked with graceful purpose to his end of the table and sank to his knees, which put the table at a comfortable height for him.

Foreseeing an evening of painful knee cramps in her future, Shepard knelt as well, feeling slightly like a kid at the adults' table. She noted that a cushion had been thoughtfully placed for her, but whether out of a kindness to her joints or a booster for her smaller stature, she couldn't say.

The Arishok took the teapot from the brazier and poured into a simple wooden cup before her. The warm fragrance of black tea drifted up to Shepard's nose. He filled his own cup as well and replaced the pot on the brazier. Unhurriedly, he picked up one of the covered dishes from the table before him, removing the lid and passing the dish across to Shepard. Delicious-smelling steam rose from it, and Shepard's stomach rumbled in appreciation as she ladled what appeared to be some kind of stewed or braised meat into the bowl in front of her.

She flushed at the sound, handing the dish back to the Arishok. "Sorry," she apologized, "I guess I'm hungrier than I thought."

The Arishok served himself from the dish, nodding toward a basket full of flatbread in front of Shepard. She helped herself to a piece and offered it to the giant.

"I have to say that your mess sergeants are a hell of a lot more skilled than ours are," Shepard said with a twinge of envy. "This smells wonderful."

"Mess sergeant?"

"The person who runs the kitchens," Shepard clarified.

The giant inclined his head. "The body requires food, or it will deteriorate," he commented.

"Yeah, but where I come from they don't believe it has to _taste_ good."

The Arishok met her gaze. "They are correct. It does not."

Shepard rolled her eyes. "How lucky for you, then, that your current mess sergeant doesn't share your belief." She hesitated in reaching for her fork, uncertain of the etiquette. She'd never properly shared a meal with the qunari. Did they offer thanks beforehand? A toast? Dig right in like hungry varren?

The Arishok picked up his fork and flatbread, and Shepard did likewise, hoping that her uncertainty went unnoticed. Evidently, the qunari ate as they did everything else, purposefully and practically, and with very little ceremony.

She hadn't been kidding about the quality of the food, either. Gardner had done his best, and he'd been a step above any Alliance mess sergeants - especially after she'd gotten the items on his lengthy shopping list - but Shepard wasn't used to eating this well outside of a restaurant.

The dish was richly flavored, despite its stewed nature, with a hint of spice. Shepard, who was a big fan of a bit of heat in her meals, approved. But unlike some cooks, who used spice as a battering ram, the qunari used it subtly, adding depth to a profile of flavors rather than relying on it to carry the dish. Shepard found the taste reminiscent of Caribbean jerk.

Shepard lifted her cup and took a sip. The tea was strong but mellow-flavored, and she let it sit on her tongue for a moment before swallowing.

_Damn. If the qunari eat this well all the time, no wonder they get converts!_

She took another sip. "In the event you haven't heard, the viscount requested a meeting with me today," Shepard broached the subject carefully, watching him closely over the rim of the cup. "He seems to think I'm here to upset the balance of power in Kirkwall."

"He is a fool," the Arishok replied simply. "If you wished to rule this festering pustule of a city, he would already be dead."

"Oh?" Shepard raised an eyebrow. "What makes you say that?"

The Arishok gave her an arrogant tilt of his head. "Am I wrong?"

Shepard grinned at him and took a sip of tea. "Not at all," she answered. "I'm just interested in your reasoning."

"Because you are not _always_ a fool."

Shepard laughed and set her cup down. "What happened to the compliments?"

"That _was_ a compliment."

Still grinning, Shepard gave her head a shake. "So, you're saying that, of all the foolish things I _could_ do, killing the viscount of the city _wouldn't_ be one of them?"

"An open assault would be unwise. You do not have an army."

"The viscount thinks I'm trying to steal yours." Shepard's eyes crinkled with amusement.

The Arishok snorted.

"That's what I told him." She forked another bite into her mouth.

"I have observed your tactics. You look for weakness and exploit it," said the Arishok. "You of all people understand; remove the head, and the body is at a loss."

Shepard nodded, swallowing. "I'd take out the templar commander first, though. Meredith is the real power in Kirkwall." She took another bite. "And Cullen would have to go as well, I think. Too idealistic. But Bran…" Shepard tapped the handle of her fork against her bottom lip thoughtfully. "Bran might be useful. I sense he's less dedicated to Dumar himself than to preserving the viscountship." She thought about the concealed knife in the seneschal's boot. "He's… cunning. And he knows the nobles, which is more than I do."

"Yes," she mused, reaching for her tea. "Bran would have to stay."

"You have actually considered this strategy?" The Arishok lifted a brow questioningly.

Shepard gave a sheepish laugh. "Not really. Just thinking out loud, I guess." She set her tea down and shifted slightly to relieve a cramp in her knee. "Besides, I'm not really suited to politics. They make my trigger finger itch."

"You are unused to this posture," the Arishok noted, watching her.

"Yeah," Shepard admitted. "You can move faster from a crouch, or from one knee."

She could swear the impassive lips twitched slightly in amusement. "You will not give offense if you sit comfortably."

Biting back a sigh of relief, Shepard eased herself onto one hip and stretched her legs before tucking the cushion under her rump and sitting cross-legged on it. "Thanks," she said gratefully. She tilted her head slightly. "Your knees don't complain?"

"No." The giant lifted his tea to his lips.

"You'd think that with all the money that went into rebuilding me, they might have given me tougher knees," Shepard groused.

"Rebuilding?" The Arishok's brow furrowed slightly.

"Didn't Asa tell you?" Shepard asked, surprised.

"No." The word was heavy.

Shepard picked up her fork again. "I, ah… a couple years ago, I was… mmm, injured… very badly. It took two years of pretty extensive medical work to put me back together again," she said quietly.

_Meat and tubes and billions of credits of cutting edge technology.  
_

The Arishok nodded with a kind of satisfaction, like he'd just found where a piece of a puzzle fit. "You are one who has touched death and is stronger for it."

_If by 'touched death' you mean 'died and brought back by a pro-human terrorist organization', then yes. But stronger? Not really. Not in the way you think._

"Maybe," Shepard answered, letting her thoughts stay her own. "I can't say I recommend it."

The yellow eyes regarded her as she finished the last of the stewed meat in her bowl and used the end of her flatbread to mop the remaining sauce.

"Tell me of your training," he said, lifting the lid on another dish and holding it out to her.

Shepard reached out to take it - it contained fresh vegetables, roasted with herbs. She helped herself to quite a lot.

"What do you want to know?" she asked.

The giant took the dish from her and set it back on the table, replacing the lid with a faint pottery _click_. "Begin at the beginning."

"All right," said Shepard with a habitual half-roll of her shoulders. She forked a carrot and popped it in her mouth, chewed and swallowed it, and took a sip of tea.

"My military training started when I enlisted in the Systems Alliance Navy on my eighteenth birthday," she told him, "with the twelve-week basic training all Alliance recruits are expected to pass."

"You started your training late," commented the Arishok.

Shepard shook her head. "The Alliance doesn't allow you to enlist until eighteen. People who want to go directly into officer training can begin some of the prep for that in high school, before their eighteenth birthday, but they still can't enlist until they are officially of age."

He frowned again. "That is inefficient. You lose many years of training."

Shepard toyed with a chunk of green that she thought was some kind of squash. "You're probably right, in a way. A lot of basic is tearing down old habits so that new ones can be taught. Tha… One of my team began _his_ training at six, and he was very, very good at what he did."

The Arishok frowned. "The tamassrans would not chose a role for one so young."

"Why not?" asked Shepard curiously.

"It is hard to judge the potential of one barely out of infancy." He tipped his head. "Are your reasons any different?"

Shepard waggled a hand back and forth. "Yes and no. For those of us who make our own choices, we might change our minds a half dozen times before we really decide what it is we want," Shepard said. "And since committing to service in the armed forces is something that shouldn't be taken lightly, we want to make sure that kids are old enough to understand the kind of commitment they're making."

She snorted. "Even at eighteen, not everyone does."

"And you?" The yellow eyes were piercing.

Shepard stared at her vegetables. "I only knew I needed another direction. I liked to fight and I could shoot a gun, so the Alliance seemed a good match."

"You did not," he surmised.

"No, not really."

The Arishok huffed to himself. "Why?"

Shepard knew he wasn't asking why she didn't understand what it meant to enlist. He wanted to know why she made the choice.

She felt her expression tighten as old memories came back to haunt her.

"Because a man who had no reason to help me offered me a way out. Because revenge is a wheel that never stops spinning."

_Anderson, looking down at her. She, scowling up at him as much as the bruises would allow. "Why are you doing this? Why are you helping me?"_

_The gleam in his eye as he replied, "Because if you give the Alliance even a quarter of what you've given the Reds, you'll make one hell of a soldier one day."_

"You were running," said the Arishok, his eyes narrowing.

Shepard admitted. "Yeah. In a lot of ways, I was."

She held his gaze steadily. Her past was what it was, and she'd long ago made as much peace with it as she could.

The giant returned his attention to his food. "You say you already were skilled at fighting," he said. "This would mean you had already received some training prior to your eighteenth year."

"That wasn't training," Shepard said flatly. "That was _surviving_."

The Arishok rested his elbows on the table, cradling his cup of tea in both hands and watching her over the top of it. Everything in his manner said, _explain_.

She sighed. "Mom left when I was still pretty much a baby, and my dad developed a rare cancer and died just before my eighth birthday. I was in and out of foster homes until I was about eleven, when I started running with a street gang."

The Arishok's forehead creased. "Are there none to teach the imekari where you come from?"

Shepard lifted one shoulder. "Most kids get some kind of mandatory schooling. I wasn't any different, except that I dropped out when I joined up with the Reds. Life on the streets became my teacher, and every morning I woke up meant I'd passed a test."

_It meant I'd survived another night under a bridge or some other dark corner. That I'd scraped up enough to eat the day before. That I'd kept under the radar of the real predators. That I hadn't done anything to piss off Vic or one of his buddies._

"I started fighting in bare-knuckle contests when I was twelve, to make money. There was no training for that, either. I was was just a tough, angry kid, and enough of a tomboy that I didn't care if I got punched in the face." She shrugged again. "That was probably also the reason I didn't end up pursuing other avenues for money." Shepard laughed without humor. "I was a bit of a late bloomer."

The giant raised an eyebrow. Shepard took a sip of tea and clarified. "Prostitution. A lot of the other girls were turning tricks by the time they were twelve or thirteen. But I didn't really even start looking like a girl until I was sixteen or seventeen, and I didn't start noticing boys until I was fourteen."

"Noticing?" the Arishok asked sharply. "How do you neglect half of the population?"

Shepard shook her head and colored slightly. "I mean in… _that_ way. Uh… sexually."

She cleared her throat and continued. "Anyway, running with the Reds for seven years pretty much guaranteed that I could fight and shoot a gun. I suppose I should also mention that I killed my first man at fourteen. The Reds were an odd lot - pretty much all you had to do was live in the projects off Tenth and be poor as shit and they'd take you. But many - most - of the other gangs were race-based. We had some trouble with one of the latino gangs down south, and it turned into an all-out gang war that year. So that was another thing the military didn't have to teach me."

There was a deep rumble from the kossith. "Such chaos. Such waste. Without certainty, you bas scrabble like dathrasi in the dirt, each seeing only as far as the end of your own nose."

"That's a broad generalization, isn't it?" Shepard retorted. "And do you really see any farther when every part of your life is planned for you?"

"When you have understanding, yes."

Shepard's jaw bunched in anger but she kept her voice fairly level. "Well, there you have it. I'm a product of everything you despise about bas; poverty, crime, and the freedom to choose a different direction than the one you're handed."

The Arishok grumbled under his breath. "_You_ are not like other bas," he said. "It makes no sense. You are… _vexing_."

Shepard gave him a feral smile. "Now _that_ is a compliment."

He scowled at her for a moment before busying himself with the dish of vegetables.

She ate a few more bites in silence, and then went on quietly.

"After basic, I applied to go on to Marine Combat Training. After all, fighting was what I'd enlisted to do. I wasn't going to be a pilot or medic, and hell if they'd get me behind a desk."

"Your soldiers are not trained to fight as a matter of course?" The giant's shock was nearly palpable.

"There are a lot of service designations within the Alliance Navy," Shepard explained. "There are scientists and engineers and support staff, like cooks and quartermasters. Not everyone fights on the front lines. Not everyone even gets ship duty. Some may never leave a dirtside posting their entire service, combat training or no."

The Arishok re-filled her cup and she took a sip before continuing. "I was accepted into MCT and finished with top marks. Received two commendations during my first tour of duty and a field promotion to Staff Sergeant."

Her eyes were distant. "It turned out Anderson was right; I made a hell of a soldier, and what's more, I loved it. When my first three years were up, I signed up for the longest service I could and greased my way into officer training."

"Anderson?" questioned the giant.

Shepard's throat tightened. "When I said that a man with no reason to help me offered me a way out? Anderson was that man."

_Goddamn Illusive Man. If there's a hell, I hope you roast there slowly for the rest of eternity._

Her fingers were gripping the wooden cup so hard one of her knuckles popped. Shepard took a deep breath and forced her clenched hands to relax.

"Spent two years in officer training - I had educational requirements to catch up on, as well as the regular bullshit - before I was back on ship rotation. Barely survived the first ground mission after my commission, but it got me an invitation to attend special forces training. That I'd been picked to become the best of the best was… amazing. Humbling. Frightening. I attended N-school training in between cruises for the next few years, until I got my N7 designation."

Shepard shrugged and bit at a chunk of something sweet and white that she thought might be a turnip, or maybe a parsnip. "That's it. Everything else is just me getting shot at, blown up, beaten, stabbed, set on fire, clawed, bitten, or whatever. Messier than training, but in a lot of ways far more valuable. Training isn't a substitute for experience. When the metal hits the meat, it's experience that counts more than anything else."

"Yes." The golden eyes were inscrutable again.

Shepard gestured at him with her chin. "What about you?"

"I was selected for my role by the tamassrans at twelve. I have lived every day since fulfilling that role."

Shepard's jaw sagged a little. "That's it?" she demanded. "I pour out half my life's story and that's all I get in return?"

"There is nothing else to say."

"Well…" Shepard waved her fork grandly, "make something up! Like… when did you become Arishok? Or was that decided back when you were twelve?"

"I was chosen to be Arishok after the previous Arishok was killed by the bas-saarebas in Seheron."

"The previous Arishok? There's only one of you? Not like the stens, or ashaads, or karasten, then?"

"Yes."

_Holy shit, Shepard! This isn't just the leader of this detachment of the antaam, this is the leader of the _entire_ antaam._

"So what were you before that?" she asked, weakly.

"I was sten."

"That… must have taken some adjustment," she hazarded.

The Arishok did not answer. He merely refilled his cup.

_Okay. Clearly not something we talk about._

"What about Asa?" she asked suddenly.

The Arishok's brow rose.

"He was viddathari," Shepard pointed out. "How did he become asa?"

"The tamassrans selected him for the role, as they do for imekari. It simply occurred later in life," he replied, as if the answer should have been obvious.

Shepard's eyes narrowed. "The tamassrans have a lot of power in your culture, don't they?"

"All roles are equally important," he answered.

"Yeah, right." Shepard rolled her eyes.

"Without the farmer, there is no food," he reminded her.

"But without the tamassrans, there is no farmer, right? Because they choose who breeds with whom, and what the resulting child will be for the rest of its life."

"That does not lessen the importance of the farmer's role."

_Or the power of the tamassrans_. But Shepard sensed this was not an argument she could win.

She finished the last of her vegetables. "So what happens when you have a viddathari with skills that don't match the qun's perceived gender roles?"

The Arishok lifted his cup. "Such as?"

"Well… me, for instance. I'm a soldier. It's pretty much all I know how to do, and I'm damn good at it." She pushed her bowl out of the way so she could lean her forearms against the table. "What would your tamassrans do with me, given that I can't be part of the antaam?"

"I am not a tamassran."

"Take a guess," she instructed sharply. "Or would my training and experience be wasted, simply because I'm a woman?"

"We do not waste anything, basra," the Arishok growled, replacing his cup on the table without drinking from it. "Like all viddathari, the tamassrans will find a use for your skill when you submit to the qun."

She shot him an unfriendly look. "I'm not viddathari, and I didn't say anything about submitting to the qun. I was just curious."

The Arishok opened one palm eloquently. "Yet your answer lies in the qun."

Shepard sighed irritably. "Fine. Forget I asked."

**-ooo-**

"Well," said Hawke doubtfully, "this is it."

As far as ominous caverns went, the old shaft on the western edge of the mining camp barely found a spot on the list. The opening in the rock face was wide and propped with freshly hewn wooden shoring, the floor was sandy and dry, the air cool and smelling of nothing more malodorous than limestone and dirt - unlike the rest of the mine with its permanent dank reek of drakestone. If some creature of unspeakable evil lived here, it wiped its feet and kept the place tidy.

"Perhaps it was simply a coincidence that the corpses appeared when they did," Sebastian suggested.

"I have to think it was," replied Hawke. "This doesn't exactly look like the cursed heart of darkness, does it?"

"Faugh," muttered Fenris. "This whole place is evil. It is like arguing which is more deadly, the dragon's teeth or its claws."

Hawke chewed on her lower lip for a moment as she considered the elf's words. "No, Fenris," she said at last, "I think it's more like looking at the dragon's scales and remarking how pretty they are in comparison to the rest of the beast."

"Yes," said Fenris darkly. "Take care not to forget it's all dragon."

Hawke reached back to loosen her daggers in their sheaths. "Point taken," she grinned.

They moved into the mine shaft warily, but the passage was empty. After a short run, it doglegged to the left and opened into a small room-like cave. The walls of the cave were not smooth, unbroken stone, but marred by jagged hollows where miners had broken through a thin layer of rock to voids beyond. The way the torchlight glittered on the exposed edges suggested that there was more than just the native limestone in this cavern.

A closer look confirmed it. "Lyrium, I think," said Hawke, taking care not to touch the rock. "Fenris, you said once that you were sensitive to it…"

The elf came forward, extending a hand, palm outstretched. "Yes," he grated, suppressing a shudder and drawing his hand back. "Not in great quantities, as in the Deep Roads, but definitely there."

Hawke made a humming noise and set her head on one side thoughtfully. "That could be our answer."

Sebastian had wandered over to look into one of the other hollows. "Or, it could be this," he said, backing away and pulling his bow from his shoulder.

In one smooth motion, Fenris had drawn his huge sword and dropped into a defensive stance. Sebastian glanced once at his friend and gave a slight shake of his head. "I'm sorry. I should have clarified," he murmured. "It's… some kind of altar, maybe?"

Hawke let her hands drop away from her dagger's hilts and slipped over to the prince, brow raised curiously. "Altar?"

"Aye. See for yourself," Sebastian offered, his throat suddenly gone dry.

This hollow was more like a small chamber, perhaps a bit larger than wardrobe-sized. In the space was a block of dark, pitted stone about eighteen inches on a side. Stubs of thick candle were melted to the corners of the top face, blobs and runnels of wax caked to the sides. In the center of the unlit candles was a heavy book bound in some dark, mottled hide.

"That doesn't look ominous at all," Hawke commented, cautiously stepping over the broken rock into the narrow space and crouching beside it. "Maker's balls," she cursed, "I wish Anders was here."

Fenris muttered something under his breath, and Sebastian winced at the rogue's language.

"_Hawke_," he chided.

"Sorry," she apologized. Not for the curse itself, Sebastian knew, but in acknowledgment of his feelings on the subject.

Hesitantly, Hawke reached out and touched the cover of the book.

"Destroy it, Hawke." The harsh note of warning in the elf's voice was unmistakable as she gently curled her fingers around the cover.

"I just want to see what…"

There was a puff of oily smoke, and another, and another, as shades roiled out from the earth beneath them.

"Venhedis!" cried Fenris, bringing his greatsword back behind his right shoulder in preparation for a powerful cleaving blow.

"Maker's grace!" exclaimed Sebastian, backpedaling and trying to give himself room to draw his grandfather's longbow in the cramped quarters.

Hawke vaulted back out of the embrasure and struck at the nearest shade with her blades, swearing as she did so. In deference to Sebastian, however, she made an effort.

"Andraste's… _unmentionables_!"

**-ooo-**

The Arishok's eyes glittered slightly in the glow of the oil lamps. He placed his forearms against the table, nudging his bowl out of the way slightly as he did so.

"Tell me, Shepard," he said, his voice low. "Why do you reject the certainty of the qun?"

Shepard eyed him for a moment, debating about whether to answer his question. She didn't particularly want to provoke him. Not here. Not now.

"I… don't like things that take away free will," she said finally. "Oppression, slavery, indoctrination…even poverty; anything that robs people of their ability for self-determination."

The heavy brow lifted slightly. "Yet you command others," he said.

"I'm a soldier because I chose to be one," she replied. "As were those I served with in the Alliance. We chose a life of service and duty. No one forced us into it."

"And yet, according to your own words, you were not even aware what you were choosing," the Arishok argued.

Shepard nodded. "You're right. I wasn't. But at the end of those first three years I could have walked away. I could have made the decision to do something else with my life." She paused, picking up her cup more to give her hands something to do than because she wanted more tea.

"Look, I can't deny there are good things about the qun," she went on. "There is a sense of… of peace, I guess, in knowing exactly where you fit in the world, and how who you are and what you do relates to everyone around you. There's no struggle to find yourself, because you know. There can be a lot of comfort in that, and in knowing that, no matter what you do, it's part of something larger than yourself. That's what you meant, wasn't it, when you said that if a person had understanding they could see something more than themselves; see beyond just the end of their noses?"

The Arishok dipped his head. "Yes," he responded.

Shepard rolled the cup back and forth in her palms. "And all your people are… taken care of. Nobody's forgotten, or pushed to the edges to fend for themselves. That's… an enviable achievement."

"But?" the giant suggested, his voice heavy with irony.

"But… there's something about it that reduces the individual to nothing more than a cog in a machine. It doesn't seem to acknowledge the need for individual happiness. It overlooks passion. Not the physical sort," Shepard hastened to add, "but the feeling. Like… I don't know… music." She set the cup down and gestured slightly with one hand. "Some people have a passion for music, or… or art. They may not be naturally talented in that way, but they pursue it anyway, out of their love for it."

"While their true potential goes unfulfilled," rumbled the Arishok. "It is… wasteful."

"Not necessarily," Shepard argued. "Maybe they're… maybe they have a talent for logistics, say. And so they have a job that uses those skills. That's how they earn a living. But then they're free to chose to follow their passion for music or art as a hobby."

She frowned. "Is that… do you _have_ hobbies? It's a word that means, I don't know, interests outside of your profession?" Her lips twisted a little as she added, "Normally, I'd say _things you do for fun_, but I already know you qunari don't do anything for _fun_."

"Yes." The heavy brow rose. "But why would one chose to pursue something at which he lacks the necessary skill?"

Shepard had often wondered the same thing, but she merely shrugged. "For the love of it? Or maybe just to try something different, something new?"

The Arishok snorted and pulled back from the table. It was clear what he thought about that.

Shepard watched as he filled their cups with tea again, and then posed another question.

"What about people who have more than one talent?" she asked. "To use my previous example, for instance; say that the person who has a talent for logistics also has an equal talent for playing the violin. Does he get to choose which he wants to do?"

"No," the yellow eyes were steady. "The tamassrans would select the role he was best suited for."

Shepard leaned forward. "But, at twelve, how can they know? He's not even an adult. What if they make a mistake? Do the tamassrans ever _change_ someone's role?"

"Yes."

"Really?" Shepard heard the doubt in her voice. "So if you're not happy in your role, you can have it changed?"

"No." The tone of voice indicated Shepard was foolish for even suggesting such a thing.

She rolled her eyes. "Okay, then. What if the tamassrans make a mistake? What if it turns out that someone they put in logistics really _would_ have been better suited as a violinist?"

The giant paused while raising his cup to his lips. "They endeavor not to make them."

It was Shepard's turn to snort and pull back from the table. "Everyone makes mistakes. That's one of the ways we learn."

"Still, one does not make the attempt without perfection as the goal."

That nettled Shepard somehow. Not that she wasn't something of a perfectionist at times herself, but, hell, if you never allowed yourself the ability to fail miserably, you'd never try anything new! She voiced this objection.

"You can't innovate without accepting failure as a part of the process."

"Yet you do not set out to fail," said the Arishok bluntly. "To do so… _madness_."

Shepard tapped her fingers against the table impatiently.

"Okay," she said after a moment. "What if that guy who was chosen to go into logistics, right, what if he would have been the best violinist your people had ever seen, if only he'd been allowed to be a violinist?"

The Arishok held up a hand. "You seek to complicate things unnecessarily, Shepard. You see, but you still do not understand. It is the tamassrans' role to find the best use for talent and skill. _All_ talent and skill. For one with multiple talents, they would seek a role that requires such. Your musician would not find his logistical skill wasted."

"So you're saying that the tamassrans' job is really to make sure that the qun gets the most out of every person," asked Shepard, frowning in thought.

"Yes. You begin to show understanding at last."

She repressed a shiver.

_He wasn't kidding when he said nothing is wasted. I don't know if that impresses me or frightens me._

The Arishok watched her calmly as she digested this. "You do not approve," he stated.

"I still think the qun overlooks the needs of the individual for the good of the society."

"The world and the self are one," quoted the giant. "The good of the whole is the good of the individual."

"But there has to be a balance," argued Shepard. "I wish you could talk to my friend Garrus. His people are also very committed to the ideal of sublimation of the individual to the larger society's needs," she said. "But they allow a lot of personal freedoms as well." Shepard squinted at him. "And you still need to learn how to have fun."

"There is meditation," said the Arishok.

"Meditation? Really?" Shepard made a face.

"Yes."

"You have got to be shitting me. Tell me you're joking," she begged.

The Arishok was at his most wooden. "No."

"At least you could have said sparring, or kicking the shit out of your enemies or something." Shepard complained.

"Why?"

"To make yourself sound believable, maybe?"

The Arishok appeared affronted, a look that Shepard was only sixty-eight percent sure was feigned.

"Do you claim that I lie, basra?"

Shepard gave him a shrewd stare. "Let's say I'm open to the idea you're not telling the whole truth."

He held her stare for a moment, and once again there was the faintest hint of an upward twitch to his lips. "Perhaps there is enjoyment to be found in other things as well," he admitted.

"I knew you were shitting me." Shepard pointed a finger at him.

"Like duty."

"Aaannd there's the punchline…" Shepard grinned.

She frowned again, suddenly. "Speaking of finding things… I'm going to be leaving Kirkwall again sometime soon, to look at another ruin."

The Arishok gave her his full attention. "Why?" he asked shortly.

Shepard shrugged. "It might help me figure out how to get home."

"You have yet to explain how a ruin will do this," he said, lifting his brow.

"It might have been left by people that came from the place I come from," Shepard hedged.

_Sort of. Fifty thousand years before I was born, give or take._

"Where?"

"The tail end of the Vimmarks, north of the Planasene Forest," she answered.

"The mountains are dangerous," he warned.

Shepard bit back the response _tell me something I didn't know_, and answered simply, "Yes, I know."

Those eyes seemed to bore into her. "You will be accompanied?"

Shepard's eyebrows rose. "Yes, of course. I'd like to take Sebastian, and maybe Hawke and Anders as well."

"The archer of the Chantry?" The Arishok frowned.

"Yeah. He's from Starkhaven originally, and he knows the Free Marches well."

The frown deepened. "No," he said decisively.

Shepard gaped at him. "No _what_?"

"I will not allow this."

Shepard took a deep breath and dragged her hands down her face, trying to rein in her temper before it got too far ahead of her. "Why?"

"He has touched you," growled the kossith menacingly.

"Wait… what?" Shepard looked dumbfounded.

"The archer has touched you." There was a fierceness in those golden eyes.

"And it's certainly not like lots of people have _touched_ me before," Shepard said sarcastically. She gave him a glare. "Hell, yesterday some little kid barreled into me hoping to pick my pocket. It happens."

"I will not allow it."

"What is this? Jealousy? For fuck's sake, Sebastian's the last person you have to worry about _touching_ me!" Shepard snapped. "He's sworn off the biscuit. _Completely celibate_."

The Arishok's eyes were steely, and his face was set. "No."

Shepard looked up at the canvas overhead and counted to five. Then she looked back to the giant. "All right," she said. "Aside from my choice of companions, are there any other objections you'd like to voice?"

"Yes," said the Arishok.

"And?"

"I do not wish you to go."

"Anything else?"

The Arishok glared at her. "No."

"Okay." Shepard picked up her cup and raised it to her lips.

The yellow eyes narrowed. "You will not do this?"

She took a sip. "I didn't say that," she answered. "I just wanted to be sure we covered everything."

"Venak hol! You are maddening."

"I do my best." Shepard tore off a piece of flatbread and popped it in her mouth. "What does venak hol mean?"

The Arishok exhaled meaningfully. "Wearying one."

She sputtered a laugh. "Oh, Arishok. You started off so well tonight, too. Comparing my hair to obsidian and all."

He glared at her some more. "Both statements are true."

Shepard sighed. "Look," she said suddenly. "I know this is a… difficult situation for us to be in. I never meant this to happen. Our cultures and species react differently to things, and now…" she shrugged. "It sucks for both of us."

"The solution is simple, Shepard."

"It only seems that way."

"That is because you insist on complicating things."

Shepard took refuge in her tea again. "The burning tide, it ends with conception, right?"

The Arishok rumbled. "It ends when it ends."

"Well, if it doesn't end until I conceive, then it will be a damn long wait for you," Shepard grated.

The giant looked puzzled. "Explain."

"I'm not fertile," Shepard shrugged. "I can't get pregnant."

"Why then do you seek a mate?" he demanded.

"How many times to I have to tell you I'm _not seeking a mate_?"

He huffed. "Your body says otherwise."

Shepard threw up her hands. "Because we argue? I'm argumentative. It's just the way I am. All it _means_ is that I disagree with you."

The yellow eyes glittered at her. "It is more than that."

"Is it?"

"Are you so unaware of your body?"

Shepard stiffened. "I'm aware of my body just fine, thanks. That doesn't mean I have to do everything it tells me."

"Why must you delight in struggle?! Have you learned _nothing_ from the qun?" demanded the Arishok in frustration.

"It's called self-control," she snapped back. "_Mastery of the self is mastery of the world," _she quoted. "Or have you conveniently forgotten?"

The giant's palms slapped on to the table, sending the cups and dishes to rattling, and he leaned forward threateningly. "You dare?" he roared. "You, who have no understanding?"

_So much for not provoking him. I think you just crossed a line, Shepard._

She dropped her eyes and toyed with the cup. "I… apologize. I'd say that I didn't mean to offend you, but that would be a lie."

She was aware that the Arishok was still breathing heavily, but he settled back slightly, and after a moment, rose to his feet.

"Come," he said. "I wish to show you."

Shepard looked up in surprise. He stood beside the table, but not near enough for him to be looming over her. "What?" she asked.

"Come," he repeated, holding out one hand.

With a wrinkle in her brow, Shepard got to her feet. The giant gestured slightly with his hand, and Shepard approached him cautiously. "What do you want to show me?" she repeated.

"This," he said, closing the distance between them.

As Shepard moved to back away, he caught her wrist, but gently this time. "No," he admonished. "Wait."

Shepard halted. "What?" she demanded a third time, frowning up at the Arishok, aware that her heart had started to beat faster.

"Your body responds to my presence," he said simply.

"For the last time," Shepard said, gritting her teeth, "I do not want to mate with you. I do want to hit you, however, so I would suggest backing off."

"You may test me."

"It has nothing to do with _testing_ you," Shepard growled. "I just want to hit you."

The Arishok was once again calm and impassive. "Your body knows certainty. Your mind, however, still struggles."

He released her wrist and stalked back to his end of the table, where he knelt gracefully, and nodded to her. "Eat," he instructed.

Shepard dropped her hands to her hips and glared at him. "What was it you called me earlier? Venak hol?"

"Yes." said the giant calmly.

"Well, does your tongue have a word for _extremely annoying one_?"

"No," he replied.

"Liar."

* * *

_A/N: Apologies again for the long delay in updating. Writer's block sucks. I hope it's not too obvious, and if it is... I hope to do better next chapter._


	42. Chapter 41

_A/N: Please note that this chapter will deviate from game canon._

**Chapter Forty-One**

Isabela was attempting to tune out the droning murmur of her latest admirer - an insipid young man with carefully coiffed hair, a weak mustache, and a taste for really bad poetry - by the steady consumption of Corff's whiskey. So far, it wasn't working.

She gestured for another.

She'd spent the day following up yet another lead on her lost relic. Another failed, dead-end lead. And it had sounded so promising, too!

Corff slid the refill to her and she quickly downed it, shaking her head at the harsh bite.

A hand slapped down on the bar beside her, and Isabela's disinterested gaze traveled up the attached arm to a face.

"Shepard!" she exclaimed with pleasure.

"I need a drink," Shepard answered.

"Don't we all," nodded the pirate.

Corff plunked a heavy tankard of ale before the Spectre, who dug in her coin pouch for payment. Isabela waved Corff off with a series of gestures that indicated that Shepard's drink could go on her tab, making a mental note to have said tab transferred to the dwarf's as soon as possible.

The droning continued unabated, currently centered on the theme of Isabela's dark beauty and it's relationship to a battlefield raven plucking out his eyes.

Shepard raised the tankard and began to drain it in a single extended guzzle. When she finished, she set the tankard back on the bar with a loud thump and pushed it slightly forward. Her eyes seemed to notice the aspiring poet for the first time, or perhaps it was her ears that drew her attention to him.

"Who's the douchebag?" she wanted to know.

Isabela had no idea what a douchebag was, but something about the way Shepard said the word told her that it was an apt description.

"Someone who was just leaving," Isabela tried, giving the man a dark look.

As he had every other time she'd told him off, the poet simply redoubled his efforts.

Shepard's brow creased. "He just likened you to leprosy."

"Did he?" Isabela asked. "I think I missed that one. The whiskey must finally be working."

Corff placed a new tankard in front of Shepard, who accorded it the same treatment as its predecessor. "You want me to tell him to leave?" The Spectre cracked her knuckles meaningfully. "I might not be able to beat the qunari off with a stick the size of the Citadel, but I can certainly deal with _this_ asshole."

"Be my guest," Isabela swept up her newly filled glass and raised it in Shepard's direction.

The Spectre straightened her back and pinned the young fool with a hard stare. "My friend would like you to leave," she began in a low voice. "Now, _personally_, I'd enjoy the hell out of it if you refused. I've had a difficult day and I imagine beating the crap out of a persistent piece of piss like you would go a long way toward making me feel better. But I'm morally obliged to offer you the choice to slink out of here with your tail between your legs before I swing." She smiled a feral little smile. "So what's it to be?"

The man gulped audibly and turned and walked away without another word.

Shepard slouched back against the bar. "Damn," she complained. "I was hoping he'd argue."

But something else had captured Isabela's attention. "There's a qunari behind you," she said, frowning deeply.

Shepard's expression darkened further. "I know."

"Problems, pet?" inquired Isabela sympathetically.

"I'd like to punch something," the Spectre replied tightly. "Preferably something male."

"Ah," said the pirate, "I see."

Shepard's hand shot out just as Corff was about to remove her tankard, capturing the bartender's wrist. "Brandy," she said. "The most expensive you have."

"You know," Isabela offered, turning toward Shepard enticingly, "I could help you out with that…"

Shepard's brow furrowed again. "With what? The brandy?"

"No, sweet thing," the pirate smiled seductively. "With your man problems."

Corff arrived, reverentially bearing a glass full of dark amber liquid. "It's not Antivan," apologized the barman, "but it's smooth and it will get you drunk."

Shepard took a gulp, causing Corff to wince. "Hey," he protested, "that's sipping brandy, that is!"

She ignored him and turned her head to squint at Isabela. "You know a man who could use an ass kicking?" she asked.

Isabela shook her head. "That's _not_ what I'm talking about," she murmured, giving the Spectre a very forthright look.

Understanding dawned on Shepard, and her mouth tightened slightly. "Listen, Isabela," she said as gently as she could, "you're attractive, but I'm really not that into women. No offense."

The pirate pulled a pout. "What about Hawke?" she demanded.

"What about her?"

Isabela turned back to the bar and gestured for another whiskey. "_You_ and Hawke," she clarified.

Shepard shook her head in wry amusement. "I know you're convinced otherwise, but honestly, I haven't slept with _anyone_ in Kirkwall."

The pirate's gracefully arched eyebrows drew downward. "What, _nobody_?!"

"Not a soul."

"Really? Since you arrived?" said Isabela incredulously. "It's been… months now!"

"I know."

"But that's… how do you manage?"

Shepard sighed. "I miss Thane," she confessed. "The thought of being with someone else is just…" She trailed off with a shrug.

Isabela frowned. "You're not dead, Shepard," she said, unconsciously echoing the words of Mordin Solus in Shepard's dream.

"I know." Shepard gulped at the brandy again.

Isabela stared into her whiskey.

"Not even Sebastian?" she asked plaintively.

Shepard glanced at her. "Not even Sebastian _what_? He's _celibate_."

"_I know_," said Isabela impishly, her eyes wicked. "Forbidden fruit."

The Spectre shook her head. "Not even Sebastian."

"You're mad," declared the pirate. "And incredibly frustrated, I should think."

Shepard lifted the brandy and twisted the glass back and forth, watching the distortion of the light through the alcohol. "I'm beginning to think you're right." She set the glass back on the bar. "Have you seen Hawke today?"

Isabela shook her head. "No, I haven't. Why?"

Shepard took a more moderate sip from the glass. "I'd like to talk to her, see if she'd be willing to come along on another trip I'm planning."

"Where to?"

"More ruins."

Isabela laughed. "Haven't you learned your lesson yet?"

"Yes, I have," Shepard replied. "And I'm not going anywhere _near_ a boat this time."

"Poor pet," crooned the pirate. She straightened on her barstool. "Sailing is like sex, you know."

Shepard turned her head to stare at Isabela. "Oh, this should be good," she said. "Let's hear it."

"Do it wrong, and it'll make you sick. But do it right, and there's no feeling in the world like it." Isabela's voice was wistful, and her eyes soft.

"You miss it, don't you?"

"More than you can imagine."

"Buy you another?"

"Make it a double."

**-ooo-**

"How are you feeling this morning?"

Anders looked up from where he was compounding medicines with a start. Shepard stood just inside the doorway of the clinic, with the hulking form of a qunari soldier behind her.

"Shepard?"

The Spectre moved forward, her eyebrows puckering with concern. "No need to answer that," she said wryly. "I can see for myself."

Her bodyguard - if, in fact, that's what the qunari was - took up a station to the left of the door.

"I'm… better, actually," Anders assured her. "Just tired. Hard work keeps me from thinking too much."

Shepard nodded in understanding. "Can you take a break?"

"Just let me finish up here," he gestured to his worktable. His forehead creased. "Is there something wrong?"

"No. Go ahead and finish up. I'll start some water boiling for tea."

Shepard moved confidently to the small cubby at the back of his clinic where he slept and stored his meager personal belongings, as well as the small cupboard that served as his pantry. She'd lived in the clinic long enough to be familiar with the layout.

Anders returned to his compounding. By the time he'd finished and cleared up his worktable, Shepard was shaking some tea into a steaming teapot and had set out some food. Given that he was low on supplies, Anders surmised that she'd stopped in the market on her way.

"You didn't have to…" he began.

"No. But I look out for my friends."

The healer shook his head. "I don't deserve the term."

Shepard grabbed his arm and gave him a gentle shake. "Don't start."

He took a deep breath. "I'm sorry," he apologized. "It's just…"

"I know all about _just_, remember?"

Anders exhaled shakily. "Yes."

"Good." Shepard gave a brisk nod. "Now sit down and eat some breakfast. I want to go over a few things with you, and to ask if you'd be willing to take another trip with me." She smiled. "No boats this time, I promise."

This earned her a faint return smile from the healer, as he settled himself on a stool beside the crate Shepard had used as a makeshift table. Anders could tell Shepard remembered his prodigious appetite based on the amount of food she'd brought, but he thought that there was even more than the two of them could manage in a single sitting.

_I look out for my friends…_

"Why?" he blurted suddenly, unable to stop himself. "Really, I want to know; what have I done to earn your friendship?"

Shepard looked up at him from where she was pouring tea into two mismatched but clean mugs. "Besides saving my life a few times, you mean?"

"I didn't do that to earn your friendship," he began, but Shepard cut him off.

"I know. Which is one of the reasons you have it."

She pressed a mug into his hands. "Do you really want to know? Or are you just looking to talk me out of it?"

Anders stared into the tea. "I… I'd like to know. What is it you see in me that makes me worth this effort?"

Shepard lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug and tipped her head to the side. "Fair enough."

Fixing him with an intense stare she said, "I see a man who puts others before himself."

"I wasn't always that way, you know," he told her.

"So you _are_ going to argue with me."

Anders shook his head. "No. Just… you should know that some of what I do is because of what I am. What I've become. To… make up for it."

"You asked me what I see in you," she pointed out. "This is what I see. You care about the forgotten ones. You speak out against what you see as injustice, even when it puts you at risk."

Her eyes narrowed. "But perhaps you'd rather hear what I like you _in spite of_," she continued, her voice crisp. "You're too emotional - you let your emotions cloud your judgment. You're too idealistic - you're quick to speak out against injustice, but don't try to come up with alternative solutions or compromises. You martyr yourself - suffering for your beliefs is only productive if it enacts a change. Otherwise, it might as well be self-flagellation."

"I thought you said my willingness to put myself at risk was something good you saw in me…" Anders said, feeling a little stung by the turn of the conversation.

"It is. Risk is one thing. Martyrdom is another." She squinted at him. "So, now that you understand that I don't have you on a pedestal, maybe it's time for you to hear something else. Not all of my friends are shining examples of humanity," she paused, "or whatever. I count among them a vigilante, a scientist who practically sterilized an entire race, the most infamous information broker in the galaxy, and one of the most dangerous criminals in known space."

Shepard shrugged and reached for a ham and cheese filled pastry. "And the man I loved killed people for money."

Anders laughed hollowly. "So you're saying… what? You're not a very good judge of character?"

"I'm saying that I've learned to look deeper than the surface."

The healer was silent for a few moments as he considered her words. Then he tipped his head to one side. "It really doesn't bother you about Justice, does it?"

Shepard let out a low hum. "Concern, yes. _Bother_, no."

"It bothers the others," he pointed out. "Even Hawke."

"I'm not them," Shepard replied simply. "And maybe you should think about that. Justice bothers them, yet you're still their friend."

Anders flushed. Moist heat pricked at his eyes. He _had_ thought about it. But with Shepard's words he realized he'd been focusing on the _Justice_ part rather than the _friend_ part. In a lot of things.

"So give them some credit, hmmm? Maybe they see something deeper as well."

Those proved to be Shepard's final words on the subject. She pressed food on him, and turned the conversation in other directions.

**-ooo-**

It was after midday before Shepard found herself knocking at Hawke's front door.

Bodahn opened the door with a distracted air, a worried frown under his beard and a furrowed brow. Somewhere in the background Shepard could hear raised voices.

"Le-an-dra," enunciated the first.

"Enchantment," cried the second.

"Good morning, messere," puffed Bodahn. "I'm afraid messere Hawke is away. Shall I let her know you called?"

"When do you expect her back?" Shepard had to pitch her voice to carry over the continued argument in the distance.

"_No, Le-an-dra!"… "Enchantment!"…_

"Soon," the dwarven manservant sounded more hopeful than certain, "I hope."

Shepard gestured with her chin, indicating the voices. "What's going on?"

"I believe Messere Gamlen is looking for her ladyship."

"She's not here, I take it?" Shepard grinned. She'd never met Hawke's disreputable uncle, the one Isabela referred to as _Uncle Greasy_.

"I couldn't say," answered Bodahn, clearly anxious to see Shepard on her way. "I've been repairing shelves in the pantry."

"Well, if Hawke's likely to be back soon, I'll wait for her. No sense in making the trip to Hightown twice today if I don't have to. I'll just park my qunari in the hall here. He causes too many problems if I leave him outside."

"As you say, messere," Bodahn stood aside to let her enter. "I'll just… I need to…" The dwarf hurried off in the direction of the rising chorus of _"LE-AN-DRA!" _and _"ENCHANTMENT!"_.

Shepard nodded to the sten to wait near the door, and followed Bodahn to the source of the argument. Leandra's brother bore only a token resemblance to his sister, and little or none to Hawke. There was a similar bone structure, true, but Gamlen's face showed evidence of a life spent too near a bottle - deep lines creasing either side of a mouth more used to scowling than smiling, small, sunken eyes set in puffy, red rimmed flesh, and a network of broken veins just under the surface of skin that had given up against the onslaught of gravity and age.

Hawke appeared just as Gamlen was gearing up for another round of exchanging meaningless mantras with Sandal. Bodahn had gone upstairs, presumably to look for Leandra.

"Uncle Gamlen," said Hawke with surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"Thank the Maker," grumbled Gamlen. "It's your mother. Is she ill? She didn't show up for our usual lunch."

Hawke seemed even more surprised. "Mother? Ill? I don't think so…"

Bodahn returned. "Lady Leandra is not here, messere," he said, although it wasn't entirely clear if he was addressing his words to Hawke or her uncle.

Gamlen frowned. "This isn't like her. Leandra always sends word if she has to miss a day."

Hawke turned to her manservant. "Bodahn, do you have any idea when mother left this morning?"

"No, messere," the dwarf replied. "I've been dealing with those pesky shelves in the pantry all day."

The rogue looked back to her uncle. "Maybe she was delayed? When were you expecting her?"

"Over an hour ago," Gamlen answered. "That's a little more than delayed."

Hawke shrugged helplessly. "Maybe she forgot?"

"Be serious, girl!" snapped Gamlen. "Your mother and I have lunch every day."

"Perhaps she was meeting with her suitor?" suggested Bodahn nervously.

"Suitor?" snorted Gamlen, "What suitor?"

Hawke grinned. "Mother met a nice man in the market."

"He had flowers sent round first thing this morning," Bodahn added, gesturing to a sideboard.

Hawke's eyes drifted lazily in that direction and back to Gamlen. Suddenly, she stiffened, and her head shot around.

"Lilies?" she exclaimed, crossing the floor in a few rushed strides. Behind her, Varric murmured, "Shit."

The bouquet of flowers was indeed composed of lilies, their curved white blossoms exuding a heavy perfume.

"No," said Hawke, in horror. "No!"

"Messere?" asked Bodahn with concern.

"What is it, girl?!" demanded Gamlen.

"The killer…" she whispered, staring at the flowers. "A blood mage. He sends his victims lilies…"

"What?! What are you talking about?" Gamlen turned to Varric. "What is she talking about?"

Varric cleared his throat. "There's a blood mage in Kirkwall that has been killing women. Hawke was looking into it for Aveline. He sends…"

Gamlen cut him off. "Ridiculous," he said, but Shepard could see the fear in his eyes. "I'm sure she's just… delayed, as you said. Or perhaps she stopped in the market and got to talking with someone. You know your mother…"

Hawke didn't appear to have heard him - to have heard anything. She was still staring at the flowers in a kind of terrified shock.

Varric moved quickly to Bodahn and drew the other dwarf to one side, murmuring to him quietly. As soon as he finished, Bodahn ran off as if a demon were nipping at his heels.

Shepard caught Varric's eye as he approached Hawke and gently laid a hand on her arm. The glance spoke volumes.

Gamlen rubbed the back of his neck nervously. "I'll… I'm going to go back to Lowtown. I'm sure your mother is there waiting for me, wondering where I got to."

Varric nodded to him as the middle-aged man abruptly turned and strode off.

"Sandal?" said Varric. "Go get Griffon."

"Woof!" said Sandal happily, and he, too, ran off.

Varric gave Hawke's arm a reassuring squeeze. "We'll find her, Hawke. It'll be okay."

"Lilies," murmured Hawke brokenly. "Oh, mother!"

**-ooo-**

Appearances were deceiving. Varric took care to be sure this was the case. He was the jovial storyteller, a pint of ale never far from his hand, and nothing on his mind but the next story he would tell.

So people rarely noticed that he was also a dwarf who got things done.

A moment or two after everyone had left, Hawke took a deep breath and tried to run in six different directions at once. Varric caught her by the arms and gently but firmly pressed her into a chair, and turned to Shepard.

"Do me a favor, Starkiller," he said, gesturing toward Hawke's writing desk. "Scribble a note for Aveline telling her to get her ass down here and give it to Griffon to deliver."

Shepard nodded. Her long strides covered the distance to the desk rapidly, and she fished around in the desk for a piece of paper. The last time she'd actually had to write something was during enlistment - she only hoped she'd be able to make it legible. Snatching at the quill in the inkpot in its little well, she scratched out a brief message in bulky block letters.

"It's all blotchy," she told Varric, blowing furiously on the page after she was done. "The ink went everywhere."

"Can you read it?" Varric wanted to know.

"Yes."

"That's all that matters." He squinted at her. "What the… What are you doing?"

"It's all wet and dribbly."

"Use blotting paper. What, don't you know… nevermind."

Shepard had no idea what blotting paper was, so she grabbed the nearest piece of paper she could find and pressed it down against her message. When she peeled it back up, the ink was no longer runny, but the letters were even more blotchy than before, making Shepard glad she'd written in large capitals.

"Okay," she said, just as Griffon bounded in with Sandal trailing behind him.

"Griffon," said Varric, "Run that up to Aveline and make sure she comes back with you."

"Hruff!" said Griffon, straightening to what Shepard was half-convinced was a doggy version of attention. She held out the folded page.

Griffon took it delicately in his teeth, and sprinted off.

Hawke was rocking in the chair. Only Varric's hands on her arms were keeping her from leaping up and tearing around the room in a frenzy. "We have to find her, Varric," she moaned. "We have to."

"Shhh…" murmured Varric. "Calm down, Hawke. As soon as Aveline gets here, we'll start searching."

"She could already be…"

Shepard came to Varric's side. "Belay that, Hawke," she said crisply. "You can't do your mother any good by panicking."

Hawke looked up at her, green eyes full of anguish. "I can't…" her voice cracked. "We have to find her."

Inside, Shepard felt a pang of sympathy, but there wasn't so much of a hint of it in her voice or expression. "Snap out of it, Hawke! We need you functioning. Varric, what's our plan?"

The dwarf threw a glance her way. "I've sent Bodahn down to get Daisy. Blondie's good, but he hates blood magic almost more than the Chantry does. Daisy's at least familiar with some of it - she's the better choice when we confront the mage."

"And Aveline?"

"We'll need the guard if Griffon can't pick up Leandra's trail."

"Gascard DuPuis," said Hawke sharply. "He'll… maybe he can help us track mother!"

"Are you sure about that, Hawke? I don't trust that weaselly Orlesian bastard." Varric looked doubtful.

"Gascard's been hunting him for years now," Hawke argued. "He'll know more than we do."

"And the mage is still out there," Varric reminded her. "So clearly, DuPuis isn't all that skilled of a hunter."

Hawke opened her mouth to argue, but Shepard interrupted. "Who the hell is DuPuis?"

Varric waved a hand at her irritably. "It would take to long to explain. Let's call him our back-up plan."

Shepard nodded. "And you're sure Griffon can track Lady Leandra by smell? In this city?"

"He's a mabari, Shepard," said Varric. "He could track a fart through a skunk's breakfast."*

_Shit. This is _serious_, Shepard. Varric's forgetting to use nicknames._

Aveline arrived almost immediately - a speed which indicated she'd run all the way from her office, although she wasn't even breathing heavily. Griffon leapt around her, barking occasionally.

"What's going on?" she asked, taking in the distraught Hawke.

Varric gestured to the lilies. "See for yourself. Leandra is missing."

Aveline's eyes widened slightly. "Oh, Hawke," she sighed. Her blue-grey eyes narrowed to slits. "So what are we waiting here for? Let's get after the bastard."

"We're waiting on Daisy," Varric told her. "This is a blood mage we're dealing with."

Aveline gave a curt nod and dropped to one knee beside Griffon.

"Get your nose ready, my boy. We've got to find Leandra."

The mabari cocked his head questioningly.

"Leandra," stressed Aveline.

Griffon whined softly, then spun and dashed off up the stairs.

Aveline rose, shaking her head. "I hope he understands," she muttered.

The hound came rushing back downstairs, nose to the floor. He made a beeline for the sideboard, snuffled around it, and then followed a path to the front door, where he barked once and waited.

Hawke brushed Varric aside. "He's got her trail," she said. "We need to go now, before it gets too faint for him to follow!"

"A few more minutes won't make a difference," Aveline told her. "Varric is right. We need a mage."

Hawke shook her head and strode forward. "There's no time," she said. "Merrill can catch up."

"Hawke," Varric began, but Shepard cut him off.

"Hawke's right. The clock is ticking on this one." She frowned. "You've faced blood mages before. We can handle it."

"If you're sure," Varric said doubtfully.

"She's sure," said Hawke, wrenching at the front door.

"Let's go."

**-ooo-**

Despite a promising start, it took Griffon several minutes of back and forth zig-zagging before he seemed to latch on to Leandra's scent in the busy Hightown markets, and he seemed to again lose the scent on the heavily traveled stairwell down to Lowtown. But once they hit the wide bridge that emptied out into the bazaar, he never wavered. He went directly to a spot on the bridge and snuffled intently, giving off a single bark.

They hurried to his side.

_Blood._

What little color remained in Hawke's face fled. "Mother," she whispered.

The mabari bounded on, but now they also had a grisly visual trail to follow. The irregular drops and spatters of dried blood led them through the bazaar and to the furnace fires and smokes of the foundry district.

"Oh," said Hawke with a catch in her voice. "No. Nonono."

She broke into a run, even overtaking Griffon in her haste to reach the door to a dilapidated building, its smokestacks eerily still amid the belches of sparks from the others.

She wrenched open the door and disappeared inside as the others hurried to catch up.

"What…?" began Aveline, and then she stopped. "I recognize this building," she said.

"We've been here before," Varric replied grimly. "We weren't in time on that occasion."

"Let's pray to the Maker we're in time now."

Hawke was scurrying across the foundry floor toward the stairs on the opposite side. "Hawke, wait," called Varric. "There could be…"

There was a loud click, made louder by the sudden silence, and a sudden gout of flame beside Hawke that coalesced into the roaring, blobby form of a rage demon.

Whatever fueled the demon was no match for the rage and fear inside Hawke at that moment. Which was a good thing, because the demon was quickly joined by shades, oozing from the corners of the floor to converge on the group.

With another roar, the demon subsided into the earth and appeared a few meters away in an attempt to escape Hawke's blades, but the rogue was on it in a flash, the demon's fire reflecting off Hawke's daggers as she slashed and stabbed at the creature. There was no joy in the rogue's face as she fought; her lips were peeled back from her teeth in a snarl, and her eyes were desperate and wild.

The demon fell.

Hawke didn't even wait for the final shade to dissipate. She bolted up the stairway, taking the steps two at a time. Griffon leapt after her, clearing the stairs in three bounds. Aveline and Varric were hard on the mabari's heels, but as Shepard's foot landed on the first step, a large hand grasped her shoulder, holding her back.

"Why do you do this, basra?" demanded the sten.

Shepard shook herself free. "Not now, Sten."

He caught her again at the top of the stairway. "You endanger yourself against a bas-saarebas."

"I've fought worse," Shepard snapped, gripping his wrist roughly and yanking him toward her. As the startled kossith took a step forward, Shepard thrust her face into his. "If you don't want to follow, fine. But Hawke needs my help, and I'm going to give it to her."

The sten's dark eyes searched hers for a moment, and he nodded once, sharply.

Shepard released him and ran after the others.

**-ooo-**

Hawke was picking the lock on a trap door in the corner of the room at the end of the passageway.

"We didn't see this before," Aveline was saying.

Varric shook his head. "I think I remember boxes… crates, stacked on this side of the room."

Aveline swore.

Hawke rose and flung the trap door open, dropping into the void beyond without bothering with the rickety wooden ladder. Aveline and Griffon followed suit, but Varric grumbled and turned to face Shepard, stepping backward and feeling for the top rung with his foot. As soon as he was clear, Shepard and her qunari guard leapt down as well.

Hawke was crouching once again, working at a pressure plate at the top of some stairs. She seemed to have settled somewhat, though from the tension in Varric's shoulders Shepard suspected that the rogue was taking shortcuts with the trap that she shouldn't be.

Nevertheless, it was soon disarmed without incident, and Hawke was up and off again, more like a hare than the bird of prey she was named for.

There were more shades in the chamber at the bottom of the stairs, as well as twisted corpses. The sten proved to be an asset, swinging a sword even larger than the one Fenris wielded. Aveline used a lighter longsword and a heavy shield, which Shepard was surprised to see her using as much as a weapon as a defense, bashing or slicing with the shield's edge.

Shepard hadn't bothered to unship Garrus - there wasn't much point in such close quarters - and instead made do with her omni-blade, fearing too much backsplash on an incendiary burst.

She needn't have worried so much.

Once again, Hawke was rushing forward before the final enemy fell, but this time, she triggered some kind of trap, sending flame spewing from nozzles inset in the walls on either side.

Shepard shoved the sten out of the way, taking the gout of fire on her shields. Aveline dove clear, but from his cursing, Varric was not fast enough.

Hawke paused. "Varric?" she called, her voice strained.

"Just singed around the edges," the dwarf called back.

The flames had split the group. Aveline, Varric and the sten on one side, Shepard, Hawke and Griffon on the other. And Hawke wasn't about to wait for the trap to reset. As soon as Varric confirmed he was all right, the rogue was moving. Shepard glanced once in the others' direction, bit off one of Wrex's favorite curses, and went after Hawke.

**-ooo-**

They'd clearly moved into a section of the vast tangle of abandoned mines and sewers under the city. It was like a warren, with passages twisting back on themselves and odd little rooms opening off other rooms. If it weren't for Griffon and the occasional odd dribble of blood, Shepard was sure that she and Hawke would be hopelessly lost. She only hoped the others would be able to follow after them.

After several minutes of rising and descending stairways and threading through tunnels, they came upon an almost surreal scene of domesticity, and what was undoubtedly someone's bedroom. A large four-poster bed with heavy green bedcurtains, several wardrobes, a small table and comfortable armchair… even what appeared to be a faux fireplace with a mantle surmounted by an oil painting of a softly pretty woman with a shy smile. Candles and flowers turned the area into something akin to a shrine.

Shepard squinted at the painting again. "Hawke, is it just me, or does this look like…"

"Mother!" gasped Hawke, freezing in place.

Griffon was snuffling around the armchair and table, and Shepard left Hawke to see what might be interesting the hound.

Scraps of fabric clearly meant as bandages were laid on the table, along with a small basin of bloody water. So. Someone had cleaned and dressed a wound here. But why would the killer bother?

Beside the basin was a stack of books. A piece of heavy note paper protruded from under the cover of the top book. Shepard tugged it free. In a flowing, graceful hand was written:

_My dear friend,_

_I have obtained the books you requested. I'll leave them at our usual hiding spot. Please collect them as soon as possible. I would hate to see them in the wrong hands!_

_Your last letter was fascinating! You have proven me wrong, once again, by doing the impossible. I shouldn't have doubted your resolve, and I hope you will keep me apprised of further progress._

_Your friend and colleague,_

_O_

There were other scraps of paper stuck here and there between pages in the books, likely to mark passages of interest. Shepard opened one at random and was surprised to see a few scribbled words on the paper bookmark. She lifted it and squinted, trying to make out the scrawl - it was worse than a physician's handwriting.

_Used quicklime to preserve her feet. Unsure whether texture of the skin is to my liking. Will try other methods._

Chilled, Shepard scanned the page it marked. The words weren't in English, but were familiar. Latin, she thought, or something similar.

Tevinter. Home of the magisters and blood magic.

_Oh shit. This _can't_ end well…_

Just then, Hawke gave a small cry. Shepard looked up to find her staring at a vase of lilies on the end of the mantle. A scrap of paper was in her hand.

Shepard reached for the note. It was the same cheap paper as the bookmarks, and read, _Today is our anniversary. Had hoped to complete my work before now, but one piece is missing. I'm so sorry, love. Please wait a little longer. I haven't forgotten my promise. When I see it, I'll know. I would know that face anywhere._

A warning tingle crept up the back of Shepard's neck. "Come on, Hawke," she said, taking the rogue's arm. "Let's get back on the trail."

"This… he's mad," Hawke whispered.

Shepard fought the urge to reply, _generally serial killers are_, and simply tugged again at Hawke's arm. "The sooner we get out of here, the sooner we find your mother," she replied.

Hawke shook herself, and called to Griffon. "Find mother. Find mother, boy."

Griffon jumped forward, leading the way out of the bedroom.

In the room beyond was a corpse.

It was the body of a woman, older, well-dressed. She lay on her side, back to them, ash grey hair tumbled around her shoulders.

Hawke cried out and rushed to the figure, turning the corpse to see what Shepard had already surmised - it was not Leandra Hawke. Griffon whined from where he stood, one paw raised, on the other side of the room. The hound hadn't even given the body a glance.

"Alessa," said Hawke sadly.

"You knew her?" asked Shepard, moving to Hawke's side.

The rogue shook her head. "No. Just that she was his last victim."

Shepard cast an eye over the body and the table it lay on. Staining in the heavy grooves around the edge of the table verified her assumption that it was a dissection table, but the body appeared to be untouched. Shepard took a quick scan.

"She hasn't been dead long," the Spectre said. "Forty-eight hours at most."

"So there's hope," Hawke breathed, "mother could still be alive."

"Let's get back at it."

**-ooo-**

They didn't have much further to go. The blood mage and Leandra were in the next room.

"Get away from her!"

Griffon rushed the mage, snarling, and the man took two steps back, raising some kind of barrier around himself.

He smiled at them.

"You must be Lily," he said pleasantly. "Leandra has told me so much about you."

"What have you done to my mother?" Hawke demanded, sinking to her knees next to the padded wooden chair Leandra was slumped in. She took her mother's hand. "Mother?"

"Your mother was a kind and gentle woman, Lily," said the mage. "And she will soon be part of so much more than she - or you - could have ever dreamed."

His expression was fond as he looked upon Hawke at her mother's side. "Do you know what the strongest force in the universe is?"

Shepard slipped Garrus from her backplate and unfolded the rifle as slowly as she dared. For the moment, the mage's attention was fixed entirely on Hawke. He did not even seem to notice Griffon, growling and pacing at the edge of his barrier.

"_Love_."

"What are you talking about?!" cried Hawke. "What have you done?" She raised a hand to lift her mother's head.

"I have touched the face of the Maker and lived!" declared the mage, proudly. "No more will mothers lose their children, or husbands their beloved wives!"

"You're mad!" sobbed Hawke, trying to rouse Leandra. "You're a killer, a monster!"

The mage flinched slightly at this. "Not mad, and not a monster," he replied sternly. "Your mother and the others' sacrifice was necessary, if sorrowful. I will remember each of them with deep fondness and admiration."

Shepard sighted on the mage and let her finger caress the trigger.

The report was loud, and shocked the mage, though it was clear that the round hadn't managed to pierce the barrier. He recoiled a few steps, and Shepard swore.

"Quentin!"

It was a man's voice, heavily accented, and it came from behind Shepard. She whirled around at the interruption, wishing for the thousandth time that she had her pistol.

"Gascard?" the mage sounded surprised, but not particularly displeased. "After all these years! I figured you'd given up."

"Shut up!" said the newcomer. "I am going to learn your secrets, old man. Everything you kept from me."

"_You_…" growled Hawke. "I _knew_ there was something wrong with your story."

The man called Gascard blinked and looked beyond the mage to Hawke. "I did not deceive you _totally_," he assured the rogue. "The plan was always to kill Quentin." He shrugged. "And we can still work together. I knew you would lead me to him sometime. Once he's dead, you'll have your mother back and his research and writings will be mine."

"Kill me?" The mage sounded shocked. "You wouldn't kill me, Gascard. You respect me too much."

"Try me," said Gascard coldly.

Quentin looked pained. "I'm truly sorry, Gascard. When my wife died, I lost all hope. I wasn't able to be the mentor you deserved." He hung his head for a moment, then lifted it again. "But now my work is nearly finished, and I can teach you as I always meant to."

The mage lifted one hand in entreaty. "Come back to me, Gascard."

Gascard shook his head fractionally. "I… You'll let me be part of this?" he breathed. "You'll teach me the secrets of necromancy?" Hope flooded his face. "I…"

There was a dull thump, and the head of an arrow was suddenly protruding from the Orlesian's chest. He stared down at it and lifted his hand to touch the wound with a look of deep bemusement, and then dropped to his knees.

Varric strode forward and wrenched the arrow from Gascard's back. He glanced up at Shepard.

"What?" he said defensively, spreading his hands wide. "You were going to do that, right?"

Quentin's face screwed up in anger. "You will never understand my purpose!" he cried. "I will not let you stop me. I will not let these good women's sacrifices be in vain!"

The mage lifted his hands inside his barrier, and a small horde of dark things rose from the earth at his bidding. Shades and corpses, demons and things for which Shepard had yet to learn a name. And they were all focused on Hawke.

Hawke drew her daggers slowly, the blades sliding along their scabbards with a hiss of promised death. As before her eyes were cold and dark with fury, and her lips peeled back from her teeth in a mockery of her usual smile. She crouched beside her mother, and her daggers wove threatening patterns in the air.

Varric was already firing into the mass of enemies. From behind the dwarf came Aveline and a very angry-looking sten, weapons out and - in the case of the sten - already swinging.

"Hawke," called Shepard. "You're their target. See if you can draw them away from your mother."

The rogue's eyes flickered briefly as she considered. It was clear she wasn't willing to leave her mother's side, but as the ring of horrors closed around her, she was forced to make a decision. With a scream of rage she made an acrobatic leap out of the encroaching enemies.

"Griffon!" she shouted as she lashed out with her twin blades, "Protect mother!"

The mabari, who'd kept his eyes trained on Quentin the whole time, gave a sharp bark and sprang away from the mage, throwing his heavy body between Leandra and the nearest foe with a rippling snarl and a flash of teeth.

As the creatures moved to follow Hawke, Shepard primed a plasma burst and warned the others off.

"Drop back! Incendiary!" she yelled. In her mind she could hear Mordin crying _Flammable! Or inflammable! Forget which!_

Aveline ducked under a swipe from a shade and rolled - impressive, in full plate - to one side. The sten cast a glance in Shepard's direction and withdrew as well.

"Hawke!" Shepard shouted.

"Go!" the rogue yelled back.

Shepard launched the ball of plasma, which broke and spattered fire through the tightly packed ranks of creatures.

"I think you just got their attention," muttered Varric, as their enemies finally turned away from Hawke.

Shepard primed another burst. "Good," she said grimly, adding, "Damn, I wish I had my pistol."

She let the second burst go and followed after it with her omni-blade. An arrow shattered against her shields, and she called out, "Varric, archers! Get on them!"

"Shepard, behind you!" Aveline's voice rang out clearly over the sounds of battle, making Shepard smile even as she turned and stabbed upward, impaling a skeleton and then flinging it to one side. The voice of command. How long had it been since she'd heard it on the battlefield beside her?

Beside her, a quartet of shades were struggling against the sten, who roared at them as he swung his blade, "Anan esam qun!"

"I don't think they care, Sten!"

The fight was a protracted one. The animated skeletal remains were quickly dispatched, but the shades and shrieking things and demons were not so easily dismissed. Through it all, Quentin remained in his barrier bubble, impervious to harm. Shepard kept the corner of her eye on him. The barrier couldn't be easy to maintain - Shepard remembered Jack's exhaustion after maintaining the barrier against the seeker swarms on the Collector base. He had to be feeling it. And the moment it came down…

Shepard launched another plasma ball and dropped back to Varric's position. "I want your eyes on the mage," she told the dwarf. "When that bubble bursts, I want you ready."

Varric gave her a wicked grin. "You know, you're sexy when you order me around like that."

"Varric..."

"I'm on it, Starkiller."

Shepard nodded tightly, and rushed up to catch a swipe from a demon's claws that would have caught the sten's flank. "Having fun?" she panted at him, burying her omni-tool into the demon's chest and overloading it.

The thing shrieked, its horned head falling back as it sank earthward.

"No."

Shepard put her back against his, "Not even a little?"

"You should look to your enemies, basra."

"I am," Shepard grunted as she impaled a shade.

"Can you not do so quietly?"

"Hawke! On your three!" Shepard called out. The sten grunted behind her as he swept his sword diagonally across the chest of another demon. "Who was shouting his battle cry earlier?"

"That is different."

Shepard primed and launched another incendiary burst, causing another shade to explode in a puff of oily black smoke.

"Uh-huh."

"Conversation is not appropriate for…"

Shepard grabbed the sten and spun him around, sprinting past him and cannoning into the demon he'd been fighting. "Varric! Now!"

Quentin's barrier had dropped and the mage was swinging his staff at Hawke and Aveline as the two women battled something with long claws and longer teeth and a carapace of spikes.

Fiery hands clutched at Shepard, tearing at her armor. She wrenched herself free, triggering her cloak as the first of Varric's arrows struck the mage.

He cried out and flung a hand toward Varric, enveloping the dwarf in ice. He raised his staff in his other hand and called up the barrier once more, but Shepard could see he was flagging. She slipped around him like a wraith, watching as he fumbled at his belt for something - a potion - which he drank off quickly. No sound penetrated the bubble, but Shepard could see Quentin's chest heaving with labored breaths, the arrow high in his chest rising and falling with it.

The sten's eyes were raking the room, searching for Shepard. The demon he'd been engaging before rushed him, and he cleaved it in two with a massive backhanded sweep of his sword as he stalked forward following Shepard's last known path.

Quentin saw certain death in the sten's eyes, and dropped his barrier again, bringing his staff down in a sizzling arc.

Shepard thrust her omni-blade into his back.

The mage arched his back and screamed, and Varric's bolt took him cleanly through the throat.

The remaining demons and shades howled as their conduit died, thrusting them back into the Fade.

Hawke's eyes immediately turned to her mother. Griffon eased out of his protective crouch and whined, turning his head to nuzzle at Leandra's side.

Leandra crumpled bonelessly to the floor, unnaturally still.

"Mother!"


	43. Chapter 42

_A/N: Internet connection issues are slowing down my updating. Also, the missing footnote from last chapter… "[He] could track a fart through a skunk's breakfast" comes from Terry Pratchett's The Fifth Elephant. I thought it was an apropos idiom in this case._

**Chapter Forty-Two**

If there was one thing having a kossith bodyguard was good for, it was the fact that the giants could easily carry an injured soldier - or, in this case, an unresponsive middle-aged woman - over a long distance without tiring.

Merrill was waiting for them back at Hawke's estate, pacing and wringing her hands nervously. She gasped and bit her lip when the group of them entered, somber and tight-lipped.

"Ancestors preserve us," murmured Bodahn, at the sight of Leandra's still form.

Griffon had already been dispatched to fetch Anders, but Aveline motioned Merrill over as Hawke led the sten upstairs to her mother's room.

"Is she…?" Merrill asked, her voice catching slightly.

Aveline shook her head. "Her heart is still beating."

"Slowly," Varric added.

"Very slowly," Shepard corrected, glancing down at her omni-tool. "Like, ten beats a minute."

"We think it's some kind of blood magic," Aveline told the elf. "Can you… would you be able to tell?"

Merrill nodded. "I think so."

"Good," sighed Varric on an exhale. "Go on up, Daisy."

Aveline caught her wrist as the elf obediently turned to the stairs. "And Merrill…" the guard's eyes were clouded, "whatever you do, don't use blood magic in front of Hawke unless she _tells_ you to. Not right now."

The leaf green eyes widened slightly, but Merrill nodded.

**-ooo-**

When Anders arrived, Varric and Shepard took him aside and quickly filled him in on the situation.

"Merrill's up there now, with Hawke. We're hoping she can figure out what kind of blood magic he used on Leandra."

Anders' face screwed up with distaste. "How is _more_ blood magic going to solve anything?" he growled. "Blood magic, blood magic, blood magic… ugh!"

"I thought you only felt that way about the darkspawn taint," Varric offered the healer a weary smile.

"At least we don't inflict the darkspawn on ourselves," Anders snorted. His face grew grim. "How is Hawke?"

"About what you'd expect," replied Varric quietly. "Worse than when Sunshine was taken to the Circle."

Anders sighed mournfully. "Poor Hawke. I'll go up and see what I can do." The healer mounted the steps and soon vanished through a door just beyond.

Varric exhaled loudly through his nose and shook his head. "I hope Blondie can help."

"So do I."

The dwarf stared after the healer for another moment, and then shook himself. "C'mon," he said with a jerk of his head towards the library, "Let's raid Hawke's liquor. I, for one, could use a drink."

**-ooo-**

Shepard paced.

She'd never been good at this sort of thing. It would help if there was something for her to do, something to keep her mind off the endless _waiting_…

The last time she'd been in this position, at least there'd been the Council to convince to help Earth. Not that she'd managed it, but at least arguing with those thick-headed bastards had kept her mind from dwelling on Kaidan's bruised face; on the blood tricking from ears and nose that hinted at deeper damage inside his head, despite the helmet he'd been wearing.

Varric sat in a chair before the fire, a glass of Antivan brandy in one hand and Griffon at his feet. As he stared into the flames, the fingers of his free hand idly turned a small golden disk on a chain.

"Lucky charm?" Shepard asked, more out of restlessness than curiosity.

Varric looked up at her in confusion. "What?"

Shepard jerked her head. "In your hand."

The dwarf's eyes shifted to the golden disk. "No," he said quietly, letting it settle in his palm. "It belongs to Leandra. I found it in his bedroom."

Shepard didn't need to ask further, but couldn't help herself. "What is it?"

In answer, Varric tossed the disk to her. Shepard caught it easily.

It wasn't actually a disk at all. It was a clamshell. Shepard brushed her finger against the small catch on one side, and it opened.

"A locket," she said in surprise. She'd actually only ever seen one in person - they were old-fashioned, and very rare. The one Shepard had seen belonged to an asari, and contained a picture of her human bondmate.

Shepard peered at the pictures inside. One was clearly Leandra - a much younger Leandra, with burnished auburn hair. The other was a handsome man with dark hair and strong features. Hawke's father.

She closed the locket gently and handed it back to Varric. "I'm glad you found it," she said.

Varric tucked the locket away in an inside pocket of his leather coat. "Yeah," he said. "I hope I can give it back to her soon."

There was a soft rustle behind Shepard that caused all three of them to turn. One look at Anders' face as he stood in the doorway was enough.

Varric lifted his glass and drained the brandy within.

Anders crossed to the desk, where Varric had left the brandy decanter resting next to Shepard's unused glass. He poured himself a couple of fingers and shot it back like whiskey.

He set the glass back on the smooth surface and stared into the wood, fists clenched and resting on either side of the glass. After a moment, he looked up at the wall and said, "We've done all we can."

"Not enough?" guessed Varric.

"No." The healer's voice was quiet and roughed at the edges by pain. "I don't think so."

"Damn," said Shepard.

"Maker's _cock_," Varric swore.

Anders poured another splash of brandy into his glass and turned, resting his hips against the desk and gazing into the liquid. "She… Merrill did something that seemed to reach her, briefly. She was able to speak to Hawke." He swallowed the brandy grimly, his face etched with misery. "Hawke… Hawke told her to say hello to her father and brother," Anders voice caught slightly.

"Nug shit," muttered Varric. "I hate goodbyes."

Shepard swallowed hard, remembering too much and too many.

"_I understand, Commander. I don't regret a thing…"  
"Had to be me. Someone else might have gotten it wrong…"  
"Does this unit have a soul?"  
"Kalihira, whose waves wear down stone and sand…"  
"You did good, child. You did good. I'm proud of you…"_

"At least she got to say them," said Shepard, around the lump in her throat. "Many people never do."

Later, Shepard wondered if she was speaking of Hawke, or herself.

**-ooo-**

Leandra lingered for another two days. Hawke sat vigil the entire time, her hand holding her mother's.

Thanks to Aveline, Bethany was allowed to leave the Circle briefly, to say goodbye. She was accompanied by Cullen and another templar, fully armed. She did not speak to Hawke, but embraced her sister once, tightly, before she left.

Gamlen railed at Hawke for letting it happen, and then railed at himself for, well, everything, it seemed. Varric led him off to the Rose and arranged for the twin comforts of alcohol and a soft bosom to cry on.

Shepard did her best to stay busy. She hadn't known Leandra well, but she found herself shaken by the depths of Hawke's grief. Hawke grieved not only for her mother, but for her whole family - a father lost to a sickness she couldn't fight, a brother killed before her eyes, a sister taken away and unjustly imprisoned - a family she blamed herself for failing.

For the first time since the Crucible had fired, Shepard dreamed of the black forest.

Every night she ran through its whispering shadows, and every night there were new voices in the darkness. Familiar voices, belonging to those she'd last seen alive, but now cold, hollow, dead - Tali and Garrus, Jack and Wrex, Joker and Kaidan, Liara and Grunt, Cortez and Vega.

There were other voices as well, some named and others nameless. Tarquin Victus and Kal'Reegar called to her with words like duty and blood and sacrifice, urging her to join them the way she _should_ have. Councillor Tevos cried to her, damning her for the fall of Thessia. Javik accused her of failing this cycle, for denying him the vengeance he embodied…

…Hundreds of human voices joined by the flanging of turians, all berating her for being slow, too slow, for losing Earth and Palaven…. Volus and hanar and elcor and salarians adding their voices, the whole galaxy blaming her for letting it happen, for not stopping the Reapers sooner, for not preventing the harvest…

And finally, like a dagger of ice, the voice of Balak, cursing her for the death of his entire race.

After her third dream-haunted night, Shepard sought out Fenris and asked to spar with him. Now, when the damn qunari babysitters would be good for something, none of them would face her in the ring. And she had no intention of _blowing off steam_ in any other way, no matter how edgy and restless the nightmares made her, Vakarian and his tie-breakers be damned.

The elf was well-versed in unarmed combat - unsurprising, perhaps, given his life as a magister's bodyguard. He was strong and fast, snapping off sharp strikes that were difficult to counter. His weakness was in grappling, but Shepard found herself loath to close with the elf - his smell of oiled steel, fresh earth and leather was just too similar to Thane for comfort. So they traded punches and kicks, and ended the afternoon tired and bruised, but with a feeling of easy comaraderie. He came with her to the Hanged Man for drinks afterward, although with foresight and affection, Shepard purchased two bottles of wine in the Hightown market on the way.

Isabela and Merrill were playing a hand of Wicked Grace at a table near the far left corner of the common room, and the pirate waved them over when she saw them.

"And what have you two been up to that's gotten you so… _sweaty_?" Isabela asked archly, with a lift of her brow.

"Sparring," replied Shepard flatly. "And _not_ the horizontal kind, before you insinuate otherwise."

"Insinuate?" said the pirate, feigning shock. "Me?"

"Yes, you," said Fenris, signaling Nora to bring them glasses.

Isabela laughed merrily. Merrill, who had been watching the exchange with her head cocked to one side, said, "So does that mean you _were_ fighting, or that you…" her cheeks pinked slightly, "_weren't_ fighting."

"We were fighting," Shepard clarified.

"Oh." The girl sounded disappointed.

Isabela laughed again. "I'm hurt, sweet thing," she said with a mock pout. "You didn't ask _me_ to spar with you."

"It didn't occur to me to ask," Shepard admitted. "You and Hawke always seem to have daggers in your hands."

"Really?" said Fenris dryly. "That _isn't_ what I think of her always having in her hands."

"Oh?" Isabela leaned toward the elf, displaying her cleavage to its best advantage, her voice sultry, "And what do you always imagine me holding?"

"Oh, let me play, too!" Merrill shifted excitedly on her side of the bench. "Let's see… flowers?"

The girl looked at the bemused faces around her. "No?" She frowned slightly. "Baby griffins?" She smiled widely. "Oh, I know! Whiskey!"

Shepard stifled a laugh, as Fenris said, "She's got you there."

Isabela rolled her eyes. "That isn't what I had in mind, kitten."

The frown returned. "Then what… Oh. _Oh_." Merrill raised a hand to her mouth, eyes wide and a bright blush coloring her cheeks. "I should have known it was something _dirty_."

"You're delightful, kitten," Isabela told the girl fondly.

"So you'd be interested in some unarmed sparring?" Shepard asked. "And let me once again add that I mean that in the _literal_ sense."

The pirate's amber eyes sparkled with mischief. "You're no fun."

"I suppose that depends on your definition of fun," said Fenris. "I enjoyed myself thoroughly."

Shepard sketched him a mock bow. "Thank you, serah," she said. "So did I."

"Mmmm," purred Isabela. "Well now I _have_ to be involved, even if it's only to watch."

"Wait," interrupted Merrill, with some confusion, "are we still talking about fighting? Because now I have _all sorts_ of things in my head."

Isabela reached out and touched Merrill's cheek with a grin. "You're welcome, kitten."

**-ooo-**

In her dreams, Hawke whimpered.

The sound woke Varric, and he slipped his arms around Hawke's sleeping form, stroking her hair and murmuring softly to her until she settled again.

It had been nearly a week since Hawke had given her mother's body to the flames while the Grand Cleric herself spoke words of benediction and peace to accompany Leandra's soul to the side of the Maker. A week since Hawke had last left the estate, a week since she'd last spoken more than a handful of monosyllables. Varric had been dropping in every day to check on Hawke, and had left standing orders with Bodahn to send for him should Hawke ask for him.

She hadn't, but after a few days, Bodahn had sent for him anyway.

"I don't like it messere," Bodahn told him quietly in the entryway as he took Varric's coat. "She drifts around the place like a ghost. She barely eats - it's giving Orana fits, poor girl - or speaks." The manservant's worried eyes caught Varric's. "I haven't seen her smile at all. Not once."

"Not much reason for her to smile," Varric had replied.

Bodahn sighed. "Poor Lady Leandra," he said. "Such a shame."

"Yes," agreed Varric.

"But messere Hawke… It's not like her not to smile _at all_," the other dwarf shook his head resolutely. "Not even the kind when she's not really smiling."

Varric understood. In the years he'd known Hawke, it was rare for a day to go by without the rogue cracking some kind of a smile, even if the smile meant someone was going to be feeling the edge of her blade. Hawke smiled like the tides shifted Kirkwall's filth around the harbor - sometimes pleasantly, sometimes not, but inevitably and without fail.

"Where is she?" Varric asked.

"The library, messere."

Varric found her staring into an unlit fire, one hand picking listlessly at the fabric covering the arms of the chair.

"Hey, Hawke?" he said softly.

Her eyes flickered to him and then away, and she hunched slightly in the chair. "Varric." Her voice was raspy and leaden, not like her usual bantering tones at all.

Varric was at a loss. He wanted - oh, how he wanted - to go to her, put his arms around her and comfort her. But this was _Hawke_, doer of mighty deeds and slayer of mighty foes. How did you _comfort_ a force of nature like Hawke?

He settled for moving closer. "This isn't the way the story should go," he told her, his voice low, quiet.

"Life doesn't care about stories."

It was more words that she'd spoken to him in a week, but he shifted uncomfortably at her tone. It didn't. Varric knew that better than anybody.

Trying for a smile, a grimace, anything other than the look of dull misery on Hawke's face, he quipped, "If it did, we'd be up to here in griffins, all named _Feathers_."

Hawke looked up at him and there was pain - so much pain - in her eyes.

"Anything I can do for you, Hawke?" he asked seriously. It was the question he asked every day, and one she usually answered without speaking or even looking at him. This time though, she whispered, _"Make this not have happened."_

To the void with Hawke the Mighty. This was Hawke the Miserable, and Varric couldn't stand to see her hurting. He gathered her gently in his arms and murmured against her temple, "I wish I could."

One hand crept up his chest and balled itself into a fist in his shirt. Hawke drew a shuddering breath and exhaled on a wracking sob. Soon, the other hand followed, and Hawke was clutching at him, her face buried against his neck, weeping bitter, anguished tears.

He'd held her there for more than an hour, while his back cramped and his left leg went numb. Then, limping slightly, he'd helped her upstairs, undressed her, tenderly washed her swollen face, and put her to bed.

Hawke needed him.

Varric wasn't sure if the pounding of his heart when he realized that was due to panic, or something… else.

_Maker's balls, I'm in trouble._

**-ooo-**

Shepard spent the following morning in the Chantry library, where, after many hours with the help of one of the brothers who looked after the large collection of writings, she found a slim volume that was the translated journal of a Tevinter scholar. Although the man was a magister, with the attendant ego and arrogance, he seemed to be more dedicated to a life of academic influence than worldly power. The dwarves were of particular interest to the magister, who was keenly intent on developing a theory for their resistance to lyrium and magic, and their inability to enter the Fade.

In the course of his studies, the magister - one Claudius Morici - had made several trips into the Deep Roads in search of dwarven writings, making him one of the foremost authorities in the Imperium. He also made a point of visiting odd ruins that lacked an obvious provenance, as a few of these turned out to be dwarven outposts for trade with the surfacers. One of the ruins he visited was in the western terminus of the Vimmark mountains, matching very closely to the location of interest Shepard had found in the Arishok's book.

The expedition was not a success. The ruin was located on a tiny plateau between jagged peaks. No paths or roads lead to it - from the expedition base camp halfway up the mountain, it was nearly inaccessible. Morici had lost many slaves in his attempt to reach the plateau.

Shepard felt her blood quicken as she read the harrowing description of the ascent. Not because it was gripping reading - Morici's writing had as much artistic style as an elcor ballet - but because Morici commented that it "seemed shut away from mortal man, accessible only from the heavens…"

But when she reached the passages describing the ruin itself, her pulse was pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears.

_When last we reached the valley - a grandiose term for no more than a cleft or fissure in the precipitous heights to either side, less than a half-furlong in length and perhaps a quarter wide, and not a but a few spans of level ground here and there - and the ruin was revealed, my breath caught. It rose from the very earth, a peak in miniature, fronted with some dark reddish stone I have never seen the like of, and that at once held the light and reflected it. Some distance apart was a square courtyard, large enough perhaps for two wagons abreast, but cracked and uneven with the passage of time._

A peak in miniature.

A pyramid.

_Protheans!_

She gripped the edge of the table firmly, trying to keep herself in check, and squeezed her eyes shut.

_Verify your target, Shepard. Breathe in,_ steady, _breathe out._

Shepard opened her eyes and read on, trying not to let her mind dwell on the words, to find that the expedition had only managed to breech the first set of doors and enter the antechamber of the ruin; the inner doors being _held fast with a magic that cannot be broken_.

An _intact_ prothean ruin. Shepard realized she was swearing under her breath.

She set Morici's journal aside and stood up carefully, replacing the hard wooden bench back under the table with a muffled scraping sound. Methodically, Shepard collected her research materials into a small, neat pile, and sought out the Chantry brother to thank him for his help before leaving the library.

The blue-eyed karasten on nanny patrol peeled off from his place beside the ornately carved Chantry doors and fell in behind her.

Only three people in the galaxy would have suspected how tightly Shepard was controlling herself; and two of them were dead. And only one of those would have understood how she managed to move at such a steady, unhurried, relaxed jog given that her nerves were screaming and her blood was roaring. And Anderson had taken that secret to the grave.

"_How can you be so calm, sir?" Shepard tugged at the high collar of her dress blues. In the state she was in, the collar felt like she was being strangled by a sedated salarian - weak fingers grasping ineffectually at her throat._

"_I'll tell you a secret, Lieutenant," Anderson had replied, giving her a tight little smile. _

_Shepard gave him an unfriendly look. "With all due respect, Captain, if you tell me to imagine thousands of people naked…"_

_Anderson cut her off with a slash of one hand. "You're a soldier, Shepard. You've been trained for this, you just haven't realized it."_

"_I don't remember public appearances being covered in MCT, sir." Shepard stretched her neck, rolling it from side to side. _

"_No," Anderson admitted. "But nerves were. That's all this is, Shepard."_

_Shepard rolled her eyes. "Let me finish," said Anderson, catching her expression. "You want to know how I can be so calm? I do the same thing I do to settle and focus myself behind a rifle." He moved so that he was directly in front of her, his sharp black eyes boring into hers intently. "And when I walk out there," he jerked his head to indicate the crowd waiting in the pale Vancouver sunshine for the commendation ceremony to start, "you can bet your ass I'll be calling cadence in my head like I was training parade drill." He gave her that wolfish smile again. "Your training's good for more than just the battlefield, Shepard. Remember that."_

Shepard did. Just one of many little things Anderson had taught her over the years; things that made her the soldier she would become.

_I saw an old lady walkin' down the street  
She had a rifle on her back and mag boots on her feet  
I said, "Hey, old lady, where you goin' to?"  
She said, "I'm goin' to Interplanetary Combatives School."  
I said, "Hey, old lady, I think you're too old;  
You'd better leave that stuff to the brave and the bold."  
She said, "Listen, buddy, I'm talkin' to you;  
I'm an _instructor_ at IC School._

The words of the old jody ran through her head as she moved easily through the Hightown plazas and avenues, but her blood was still fizzing when she opened the door to the dilapidated mansion Fenris called _home_, or at least _the place I return to sleep_.

"Shepard?" called Fenris from the top of the stairs.

"Fenris," she called back tightly, moving into the main hall with purpose.

The elf descended the stairs quickly, catching the tension in her voice. "Is there a problem, Shepard?" he asked uncertainly.

Shepard couldn't help it. She felt her lips crack into a grin that broadened and broadened until she was sure the top of her head would fall off. Forgetting herself, she let out an oorah and went for the double-handed high-five and chest bump.

These are not common practice anywhere in Thedas.

Fenris sidestepped the overly-enthusiastic celebratory greeting and kicked Shepard's leg out from under her.

"Uff." The breath left Shepard's lungs as she landed ungracefully on her backside. "Fuck."

Fenris eyed her warily. "Are we starting early? Isabela hasn't arrived."

"No, you bosh'tet," she groused. "I have good news for a change."

The elf extended a hand to help her to her feet. "We could certainly use some."

"This ruin I've been reading about? The one I was planning to explore next?" Shepard's hand tightened involuntarily on his for a moment. "I'm almost positive it's prothean."

Fenris could feel the excitement coming from the Spectre. Her eyes were brilliant in the dim light of the hall. "How can you tell?" he asked.

"It's described as a pyramid," Shepard explained. "I don't know how many prothean ruins I've stumbled across - not the remains of their cities, but the small outposts or data caches on uncharted worlds - and the majority of them seemed to be pyramids." She frowned briefly. "You know, I always meant to ask Javik about that…"

"That's it?" Fenris sounded skeptical. He scratched his head with one taloned gauntlet. "It could be qunari. They favor pyramids as well."

Shepard huffed impatiently. "But this is also hidden way up a mountain, with no good way to reach it without a shuttle."

The elf still didn't look particularly convinced, but he shrugged. "If you say it's good news, I'm willing to take your word for it."

Shepard huffed again. "Thank you very much," she said sarcastically. "And thanks for leaving me hanging and then sweeping my leg," she added irritably.

"Leaving you hanging…?"

"The high-five? The chest bump?"

"I am unsure what you mean."

Shepard shook her head. "Look," she said, holding up her hands. "It's simple. In my culture, when you want to express that something good has happened - anything, from telling a good joke to sniping an enemy from kilometer away - you high-five." She waved her hands slightly. "That means slapping your hands together with someone else."

When Fenris just continued to give her a puzzled look, she reached across and took his wrist gently, bending his elbow and positioning his hand with the palm toward her. Then she slapped her hand against it lightly.

"See? It's bad manners not to acknowledge a request for a high-five." She gestured to where his hand still hovered stiffly. "So if you were to be like that, and I didn't give you a high-five, I'd be _leaving you hanging_."

Shepard folded his hand into a fist and repositioned it. "That also goes for _punching it in_, which is a knuckle bump." She knocked her knuckles against his gently.

"And if things have really gone well - you've just defeated an overwhelming force, or you think you just found evidence of an _intact prothean ruin_ - there's the chest bump." Shepard nudged Fenris's hand out of the way and pushed gently on his shoulders. "Shoulders back," she instructed, straightening the elf out of his habitual slouch. "Head back, too, and slightly to the side."

Fenris stiffened at the familiarity of her touch, and she pulled back to study him. "Or not," she said. "Chest bumps are usually only performed between friends."

Their eyes met briefly, and then Fenris did his best to adopt the posture Shepard was describing. "Like this?"

Shepard smiled. "Exactly," she said, bumping her chest against his affectionately.

Fenris returned the smile, a little hesitantly. "I can't say I understand the practice," he admitted.

Shepard snorted. "You have to _feel_ it for it to make sense," she told him. "Be like," and here she slapped her hands together and uttered a deep, bellowing, "YEAH!"

"Did I miss anything important?" Isabela asked, sauntering into the hall. "It _sounds_ like I missed something important."

"Shepard is teaching me proper celebratory behavior in her culture," Fenris said, a faint smile curling his lips.

Isabela pursed her lips and raised an eyebrow.

"Clothes on, or clothes off?"

**-ooo-**

Aveline looked up and smiled at Orana as the elven maidservant poured her tea, murmuring a word of thanks before turning her attention back to Hawke.

The rogue sat slumped in her chair, prodding listlessly at the food on her plate.

"Your mother would be furious right now," the Guard-Captain said crisply.

Hawke barely glanced up. "Mother's dead."

Aveline's lips thinned and she caught Varric's eye. The dwarf gave a minute shrug.

"Are you going to eat that, Hawke?" he said, reaching over to spear a bit of sausage with his fork.

"You're just going to let him do that?" Aveline demanded. "What happened to _then I won't have _all _the bacon_ and smacking Isabela's hand when she tried to steal a bite?"

"I'm not hungry."

Hawke pushed her chair back and made as if to leave, but Aveline's hand shot out and grasped her wrist.

"No. Sit down." The guardswoman's voice was steely.

For a moment there was a flash of anger in Hawke's eyes as she settled back in her chair reluctantly.

"Good," Aveline approved. "Get angry. Glare at me. Call me names, even. Something!" She released Hawke's wrist and leaned forward over the table. "It's time for you to put it away, Hawke."

"The way you put away Wesley's death?" Hawke snapped.

Aveline paled slightly, and her mouth firmed for a moment before she replied. "Wesley's death was different, and you know it, Hawke."

"No, I don't." Hawke did indeed glare at her friend, but then resolutely turned her head away.

"It was _my_ hand on the blade that took his life."

Hawke looked back at her. "The darkspawn had already killed him, Aveline. He asked for your mercy, and you gave it to him."

"Those are just circumstances. Window dressing," Aveline said flatly. "It was my failure."

"And this was mine," Hawke growled.

"How?" Aveline pressed. "How could you have stopped it from happening?"

"How could you have stopped the darkspawn?"

The two of them glared at each other. Hawke looked away first. "If Wesley's death was your failure, then this empty house is mine," she said quietly.

"And you don't think it's mine as well?" Aveline insisted. "If I had taken Emeric more seriously, if I had raked DuPuis over the coals and the consequences be damned, if I had taken that foundry apart years ago…"

"And Carver? Father? Bethany?" Hawke's eyes speared Aveline.

"I was there when Carver was killed. That ogre could have taken any one of us. And your father died from an illness you couldn't have prevented, Hawke."

"And Bethany?" Hawke's jaw clenched. "I just _let_ the templars take her."

Aveline also grit her teeth. "It was her choice, Hawke. She asked you not to fight them."

"That doesn't mean I should have listened."

"Has it ever occurred to either of you ladies that sometimes bad things just… _happen_? That maybe it isn't anyone's _fault_?" Varric put in mildly.

"Earthquakes, floods, and storms at sea aren't anyone's fault, except maybe the Maker. People dying on my watch.. That's my fault. My responsibility." Aveline's voice was bleak.

"She wasn't your mother," Hawke returned, frowning. "She wasn't your responsibility. She was mine."

"All of Kirkwall's citizens are my responsibility, Hawke. That's what being Guard-Captain means," Aveline argued. "Leandra, Alessa, Ninette… all of Quentin's victims… all come back to me. It was my responsibility to keep them safe, and I failed."

Hawke opened her mouth to reply, but Varric leaned forward and cut her off with a hand on her wrist. "Listen ladies… as entertaining as it is to watch the two of you fight over something like this, may I just interject with an observation? You both seem to be forgetting a fairly important piece of this puzzle, and that is the crazy blood mage who actually killed these people." He gave a little shrug. "Credit where credit is due, after all."

Both women stared at him like he'd grown another head. Aveline was the first to recover herself. "That was a very important point you just made, Varric," she said, with only the slightest edge in her voice. "Now shut up and pass me the honey."

**-ooo-**

"You know," panted Shepard as she and Isabela circled each other, each looking for an opening, "you and I could have made a shitload of money back in LA."

"Why is that, sweet thing?" Isabela asked lazily, faking a backhanded strike and kicking at Shepard's knee.

"Are you kidding me?" scoffed Shepard, grabbing Isabela's wrist and trying for a lock. "First, guys would pay to see us fight." Isabela broke her hold and jabbed an elbow at Shepard's temple. Shepard jerked her head away and felt the fist she'd aimed at Isabela's kidneys just graze the stiff fabric of the pirate's corset.

"Second, we could fix the fights in advance, and make a killing on the betting." They broke apart again to circle.

"Who says we need to go anywhere else?" said Isabela. "We could do that right here in Kirkwall."

Shepard's reply was a wolfish grin.

Her body was tired, aching, exhausted, but the adrenaline still flowed. Shepard's mind, too, was exhausted, drunk on fatigue and insomnia, but still buzzing with the morning's revelations.

_An intact prothean ruin!_

Isabela fought hard and dirty and mean. Like Shepard, she had an eye for weakness. Like Shepard, she didn't mind taking a hit if it meant her opponent was left open for a take down. The pirate was, Shepard reflected, much like what Shepard suspected she would be if she hadn't joined the Alliance.

The three of them had traded off time in the center of the empty hall; Fenris fighting Shepard, Shepard fighting Isabela, Isabela fighting Fenris. Isabela and Fenris fighting Shepard. Shepard and Fenris fighting Isabela. And Isabela's clear favorite, she and Shepard fighting Fenris, which led to some of the dirtiest talking Shepard had ever heard from the pirate.

Hadn't worked, though. Fenris had long ago mastered his reactions in combat, and didn't even blush.

_Why _hasn't_ the Alliance picked up on this? The turians got this one dead on._

Fighting was the best catharsis.

_Normandy's next retrofit is going to include a full sparring ring. We'll put it in the old war room. _

Shepard's thoughts temporarily got in the way of her brain, and Isabela's knuckles clipped her chin. She dropped back and shook the blow off.

Isabela pressed her attack, but Shepard's focus was back and the Spectre blocked the next combination of strikes and flowed into a counterstrike easily, feeling a familiar rhythm build.

_Pivot, strike - she'll duck and come under - step left… She'll throw the hook, yes, slip past it, left hand up to block a sudden backhand, pivot around behind her, right hand reaching over her shoulder, heel of palm against her jaw, bring left leg back and…_

Isabela hit the floor with a thump, arms and legs akimbo. The pirate stared at the ground for a moment and then gave her head a shake, as if to clear it, and squinted up at Shepard.

"Andraste's flaming snatch! How did you do that?"

Shepard laughed a little breathlessly. "That was one of Thane's favorite take-downs, the bastard. You set it up perfectly, just like I always did."

Fenris held out a hand to help Isabela up. "You and he sparred regularly, then?" he asked.

Shepard nodded. "Yeah. He beat me every time."

"_Every_ time?" said Isabela incredulously.

"Well…" Shepard felt her lips curve slightly at the memory, "I suppose there were a few… draws."

"That's all right then," sniffed the pirate, mollified, dusting her backside with her gloved hands.

Fenris stepped closer to Shepard. "Draws?" he murmured, raising an eyebrow.

Shepard's grin widened. "Oh, you know… times we both won, regardless of _who_ ended up on top."

The elf shook his head. "That was a very _Isabela_ thing to say."

"True though."

**-ooo-**

"C'mon, Hawke… It will do you good."

Hawke stared at him. She'd put away her mourning clothes two days ago, but she still hadn't left the estate. Varric was getting seriously worried.

"The others miss you," he wheedled. "And Griffon's been dying to play against someone he can beat for a change."

The mabari woofed in agreement, and laid his head in Hawke's lap, his dark eyes beseeching.

"See? He wants you go, too."

Almost without volition, Hawke's hand came up to rub the big hound's cropped ears. She raised her face to the ceiling. "He's using that look on me," she accused, her voice wavering slightly. "He knows I can't resist that look."

Her eyes dropped down to the dwarf and immediately bounced back to the plasterwork. "Andraste's tits, Varric! That's not fair."

Varric's forehead wrinkled. "What's not fair?"

"You're giving me that look, too."

"Well, I want you to come out and try to enjoy yourself as much as Griffon does."

Hawke's face fell, and she looked down at the floor, trying to avoid both sets of pleading eyes. "I'm not… I don't…"

Varric moved closer to her. "Life will go on, whether you want it to or not," he said gently.

"I know," said Hawke heavily. "I'm just not sure I'm ready for it to go on _right now_."

The dwarf held out his hand. "You can always leave early. I promise."

After a very long moment, Hawke cautiously put her hand in his.

"Isabela's been cheating again?" she guessed shrewdly, getting to her feet.

"Outrageously."

"How much do you owe her?"

"Hawke!"

"How much, Varric?"

"I only owe her two. But Broody owes her four and his underclothes, and Daisy owes six and a half a herd of halla."

"You should have asked me sooner."

**-ooo-**

Shepard looked over her list again as she made her way down the stairwell to the docks.

_I wonder if they make some kind of lightweight but strong rope here. Silk, maybe? Can you make rope out of silk? Didn't they used to make sutures out of silk?_

She added silk rope to the ever growing list with a question mark after it. _We're definitely going to need a cart, or a horse or ox or something… I hope toilets are still the fad in Hightown._

Shepard was not a patient person. Knowing that there was even _potentially_ an intact prothean ruin a little less than sixty kilometers away was driving her crazy. Still, she wanted to be able to _get_ to the ruin, and that meant planning. With no Kodiak and no Mako, she was going to have to do this the old-fashioned way.

_What I wouldn't give for a Nos Astra Sporting Goods outlet…_

She nodded to the karasten on duty at the compound gate, and headed to the library tent on autopilot. In the past two weeks since their dinner… date… things had settled a little between her and the Arishok. Every few days brought a new gift from the giant, and an attempt at a polite request to see her.

The qunari still wouldn't win any prizes for politeness. _Please_ was not a word that figured largely in their vocabulary.

But their conversations had been largely civil, with both of them steering clear of problematic topics. They often spoke of martial matters - the Arishok seemed to have finally accepted the fact that Shepard was female and a soldier, or at least refrained from speaking of it, and Shepard wisely did the same. They also talked of other things - the qun mostly, but also literature, language, art, and culture. Shepard actually found herself enjoying some of their talks.

And today it was all going to come to an end. Today was the day she was going to put her foot down about the nanny patrol, and tell the Arishok that, no matter what his feelings on the subject were, she was going to be leaving Kirkwall for what would likely be some time.

"Shanedan, Arishok," she said formally as she entered the tent.

The Arishok looked up from a heavy tome. "Shanedan, Shepard," he replied, straightening in his chair.

Shepard pulled out the stool and perched on it. Now that she was here, she found herself reluctant to break the uneasy peace between them.

"Arishok…"

The giant quirked an eyebrow at her as she floundered.

"Look, I…"

"There's something I…"

Shepard took a deep breath and steadied herself.

"I would ask if you have found certainty, but it is clear you have not." There was just the tiniest hint of humor in his rumbling bass. "Speak, basra."

Shepard exhaled noisily.

_Fuck it._

"No more bodyguards," she said flatly. "I've had one _barely_ polite note from the Viscount's Office, and one not-polite-at-all note from the Guard-Captain. The fact that I'm wandering around Hightown with a qunari guard is causing problems."

The Arishok took this placidly. "They are not your problems, nor are they mine."

"Currently."

The Arishok spread his hands. "I have made no demands, offered no violence, and still they bleat like a frightened herd."

"You possess a stronger, better trained, technologically superior force in their city," Shepard shrugged. "And you talk about things like certainty and submission a lot. It makes them nervous."

"They should be."

"It's going to _become_ your problem if you keep that attitude. And also if you keep having the antaam follow me around."

"Let it," growled the giant.

"I don't want to see the inside of a Kirkwall prison, thanks," Shepard retorted dryly. "It's bad enough that I'm stuck here."

"You think these pitiful bas are a match for you?" he scoffed in return.

Shepard sat up on the stool and folded her arms on her chest. "If you have so much faith in my ability, why do I still have a qunari guard dog at my heel?"

"It is not your skill I doubt. It is your wisdom," he replied.

"Look, I can't have one of your soldiers dogging my steps in Hightown any more, and that's the end of it. Aveline has stalled Bran as long as she can. Now it's ultimatum time."

This reasoning did not appear to move the Arishok. He simply waited silently, left eyebrow still lifted slightly. His whole attitude suggested that he still failed to see how this was in any way his problem.

Shepard sighed. "Let me be clear. I've come to you to _ask_, politely, for you to dismiss my guard. If you don't want to accede to my request, I will simply take matters into my own hands."

The muscles in the Arishok's jaw twitched and he shifted irritably. "Your _request_ is spoken like a demand, basra."

Shepard smiled grimly. "Perhaps I'm learning something from you after all," she suggested.

"You have not yet earned the right to make demands of me," he answered snappishly.

Shepard eyed the giant, trying to gauge his level of irritation. "I could say the same," she said calmly, and held up her hand to ward off an immediate reply. "Before we start arguing about it, there's something else I have to say and I doubt it will make you happy. Let's get everything on the table before we start fighting, shall we?"

The Arishok leaned back in his chair, folding his arms on his massive chest and narrowing his yellow eyes.

"As soon as I've finished preparations, I'll be leaving Kirkwall to investigate those ruins I told you about. Probably a week, or maybe a little more, depending on how difficult some of the supplies are to find."

By the giant's silence, Shepard was sure he had expected this. His face had darkened, but his temper was holding remarkably well.

"You will not take the Chantry archer," he said finally, in a flat, level tone.

Much like the Arishok, Shepard had been prepared for this. "With respect, Arishok," she said stiffly, recalling Ash's words, "who I take with me isn't really your business."

"You would prefer I challenge him?" The Arishok unfolded his arms and leaned forward across the table.

"No!"

"You will not take the Chantry archer," he repeated.

"I did mention the whole celibacy thing, didn't I?" Shepard groused sourly. At the Arishok's continued stony silence, she relented with a sigh. Shepard knew a sticking point when she heard it.

"All right, all right. Sebastian will not accompany me."

The giant eased back slightly. "Good," he said, with satisfaction. "Do you have other ill-tempered requests, basra, or are we finished?"

Shepard gave him a sharp look. "No, that was it. For now," she added waspishly.

He stood, and moved around the table easily. Shepard tipped her head to one side slightly but refused to crane her neck to look up at him. "I will be waiting for you, Shepard," he rumbled at her in a low voice. "Do not think you can escape this."

And with a heated look to accompany his parting words, the Arishok left the tent.

* * *

_A/N: The jody Shepard uses in this chapter is a real cadence, but I have taken some slight artistic license with it, to make it fit the Alliance and the N7 program in particular._


	44. Chapter 43

**Chapter Forty-Three**

Sebastian stood up as Hawke and Varric entered the dwarf's suite. The prince took Hawke's hands in his and gave them a comforting squeeze.

"Has the Maker given you the night off, Choir Boy?" Varric asked lazily.

"I think the Maker will forgive me for comforting a friend," the archer replied. "How are you, Hawke?"

Hawke's smile was clearly forced, and her half-shrug awkward. "Surviving."

"I-I am sorry," said Sebastian, his cheeks coloring slightly and his aquamarine eyes dropping to stare at the floor. "I expect you are quite tired of hearing that question."

"It's all right," Hawke answered wearily. "I appreciate the thought, Sebastian."

The prince released her hands and stepped back, pulling out a chair for Hawke and settling her in it, much to the rogue's unease, though she hid it well. Before Sebastian could begin hovering in earnest, Varric clapped his hands together and rubbed them briskly. "Now, are we going to play some Diamondback, or are we going to listen to Choir Boy sing the Chant all night?"

Sebastian gave the dwarf a slight smile. "If you wished, I could certainly…"

"_I'd _like to make him sing the Chant all night," said Isabela, her eyes meeting Varric's briefly before leering suggestively at the prince. "Perhaps we can talk him into… what was it, Shepard? _Panty ante_?"

"Ah, no, I don't…" stammered Sebastian, flushing hotly and trying not to look at Hawke.

Shepard cuffed Isabela's shoulder. "You're supposed to get him drunk first."

"Why waste time?" asked the pirate, amber eyes wide.

"It's _traditional_," said Shepard. "Also, any suggestion seems like a good idea when you're drunk."

"Like having another drink?" suggested Fenris dryly.

"Exactly."

"Oooh, what's panty ante?" Merrill asked and inched forward in her seat, eyes sparrow-bright, reaching for her glass of sweet wine. "It sounds fun. Can I play, too?"

"Oh, kitten," murmured Isabela fondly, patting the elven girl's cheek. "Always know the rules _before_ you say that."

"You bet your clothes instead of coin," explained Anders, the dark hollows under his eyes just now starting to fade. He held a tankard in his hand and sipped it like a miser spending coppers.

Merrill's forehead wrinkled. "How do you do decide what's worth what?" she questioned. "Is Anders' coat worth more than Varric's because it has feathers on it?"

Shepard choked on her wine - a deep ruby vintage from Antiva that the Hightown wine merchant had saved for her specially.

"Everything is worth the same amount, Daisy," explained Varric, his eyes twinkling. "You just bet more - or less - of them. Although," he added loftily, "it's obvious my coat is far more stylish than Blondie's."

Merrill's eyes widened further as she considered this. "Elgar'non! The way I play, I'd probably be naked by the end of the night."

Isabela's smile was wicked. "That's the _point_, kitten."

"I think we should get started," Fenris interrupted, as Merrill's expression turned decidedly thoughtful. "Griffon is beginning to drool on the deck."

Indeed, the big mabari had laid his head on the table and was trying - unsuccessfully - to catch anyone's eye, his chin resting forlornly against the faded and stained cards. When everyone paused to look at him he lifted his head and let out a very un-warlike squeak, his hindquarters beginning to wiggle madly.

"Shit," said Shepard with mock concern, "I think the mabari's about to go critical." She waved a hand at Varric. "Shuffle up and deal, Manliness!"

Beside him, Varric felt Hawke relax just a little at the familiar banter, and he reminded himself to let Rivaini win this week in their constant contest over who'd pay who's bar tab.

Varric's hands flipped the cards professionally and he offered the deck to Hawke to cut before dealing out nine hands. A big group meant that play would go fast; hopefully Hawke would become caught up in the game quickly, before she could talk herself out of enjoying herself this evening.

By the time they were three hands in, Rivaini and Starkiller were arguing over whether or not taking cards from the bottom of the deck was cheating or the official 'Orlesian style' of dealing. Blondie was looking slightly smug, having won two of the hands, and the little lines of sadness around Hawke's eyes had finally eased. Choir Boy was the only fly in the ointment, looking vaguely offended that no one was treating Hawke like delicate porcelain and the evening like a funeral tea.

Varric kept an eye on the prince, hoping the man would realize that the last thing Hawke needed right now was to be reminded of her troubles. She needed a night of normalcy, a night away from mourning, and a night away from an achingly empty family estate.

As Starkiller ended the argument by offering to teach the pirate the krogan style of dealing, which involved a forehead approaching at extreme velocity, Rivaini sniffed haughtily and resumed dealing - from the top of the deck - while Daisy gurgled with wine and laughter, Broody forgot to brood for a moment, and Griffon whined and performed an excited staccato dance in anticipation of the next hand.

And Hawke smiled and reached forward for a tankard of ale.

**-ooo-**

"So," said Shepard, as she glanced at her hand and rearranged the cards to suit herself, "Anyone up for a holiday away from Kirkwall?"

"Why?" asked Varric in a tone to match the lazy grin he always wore while gambling.

"Shepard's found another ruin," Fenris offered.

"Another one?" Isabela quirked an eyebrow. "What's so special about crumbling buildings, anyway?"

Shepard scowled at the pirate. "This one isn't crumbling," she pointed out. "It's intact."

The pirate brightened at this. "Intact as in _full of treasure_?"

"Better," said Shepard smugly. "I'm pretty sure it's prothean."

"And prothean is better _how_?" Isabela frowned down at her cards for a moment. "Bugger. I'm out."

In Shepard's mind, Javik launched into a diatribe on the theme of primitives, and she smiled. "It's full of technology."

"Oooh, _technology_…" Anders grinned, throwing a few coins in the pot. "I raise three."

Griffon dropped a bone on the table and nudged it forward with his nose. He barked twice.

"What was that?" asked Merrill, leaning toward the hound. "Were you raising two, or did you want to buy two cards?"

He woofed again.

"Cards," said Varric.

"Cards," confirmed Hawke.

Merrill obliged the dog, drawing two cards from the deck and adding them to Griffon's hand, which she peeked at before displaying for him.

He growled.

"Oh, don't be so grumpy," Merrill scolded him. "I was just curious. I've already folded."

The mabari's eyes flickered over his cards, and he huffed a sigh. Merrill put his cards back on the table and patted his head. "It's for the best, really," she told him. "It was a terrible hand."

Griffon gave her a half-hearted grumble, but she'd moved on to rubbing his ears, and the mabari knew where his priorities lay.

"Shepard told me she promises no ships will be involved this time," Anders added, as Hawke studied her cards thoughtfully.

"God, no," Shepard shuddered. "No boats." She glanced slyly down the table. "I _was_ hoping for Hawke and Fenris to come along this time."

Hawke was startled out of her thoughts. "Me?" she said. "But I…"

"There may not be boats, but it _is_ going to be a rough trip. There's going to be _a lot_ of climbing," Shepard admitted. "I could use someone with your agility, Hawke, and Fenris's strength."

"Oh, can I go?" Merrill bounced in her chair. "I'm good at climbing."

Shepard smiled at the girl's enthusiasm. "I can't promise there'll be anything from your people this time, Merrill," she cautioned. "In fact, I'm hoping there won't be."

"But it sounds exciting!"

"Try difficult and dangerous," Shepard laughed.

"Well, sometimes exciting is," Merrill observed.

"And she _is_ good at climbing," Varric added. "Just ask the guards around the Viscount's garden."

"But the gardens are so _pretty_," the elven girl argued. "They should be open to everybody."

"What about it, Hawke?" Fenris asked, his eyes meeting the Spectre's while he directed his words to the rogue. "Shall we let Shepard talk us into her mad treasure hunt?"

Hawke frowned and dropped some coins on the pile. "I don't know," she said slowly.

"Oh, come on. It'll be an adventure," Varric urged persuasively, buying a card and adding it to his hand.

"You're going?" Hawke looked surprised.

"What can I say? Starkiller's got me by my curiosity."

"Is that what you're calling it now?" asked Isabella archly.

"Funny, Rivaini. Funny."

"Anders is going, too," Shepard told the rogue with the hint of a smirk. "Just _think_ of the potential for mud wrestling involved if I can talk him and Fenris into sharing a tent."

"Not going to happen," said Anders just as Fenris said, "I wish you luck."

Shepard burst out laughing. "See? See the fun you could miss?"

"Mmmm," said Isabela. "Mud wrestling _and_ treasure…"

Varric chuckled. "I think you have Rivaini's attention."

"Well… it might be nice to get away from Kirkwall for a while," Hawke finally said.

"You have my bow, Shepard," said Sebastian. "Provided Hawke does not object."

Shepard couldn't stop the embarrassed flush that crept up her neck. "Er… Hawke's objection isn't the issue, I'm afraid." She cleared her throat uncomfortably. "I hate to say it, Sebastian, but you're going to have to sit this one out."

The look of surprise on the archer's face made Shepard squirm. "I'm sorry," she said sincerely. "It wasn't my decision."

"Whose decision was it?" the prince asked, confused.

The Spectre fidgeted slightly and glanced down at her cards to avoid having to meet anyone's eyes. "The Arishok."

Varric's eyebrows leapt, and he turned his head to look at the doorway, where there was a distinct lack of qunari bodyguard. "Really?" he murmured.

Hawke and the others followed his gaze, and then eight pairs of interested eyes were once again on Shepard.

She shrugged. "He doesn't like Sebastian."

Merrill looked puzzled. "Wait. Who doesn't? The qunari with the pretty eyes?" Her lower lip thrust out slightly. "Where is he, anyway?"

"I finally convinced the Arishok that I didn't need twenty-four hour surveillance," Shepard replied.

Merrill's expression turned mournful. "But they were so _pretty,_ with their horns and their muscles and their eyes and the way they'd _look_ at you and say nothing…"

"What does the Arishok have against Choir Boy?" Varric asked, tossing his bet into the center of the table.

"The _Arishok_ doesn't like Sebastian?" Merrill gasped, shaken out of her reverie of strong, silent qunari. "That's probably not good."

Shepard shook her head. "It's complicated."

"The only thing that _isn't_ complicated about the qunari is when they want you dead," snorted Isabela. "They're deucedly straightforward about that." Her eyes shifted a little when the others looked at her, and she added, "Or so I've heard. It's your bet, Shepard."

**-ooo-**

In the end, it was decided that Hawke, Fenris and both mages would accompany Shepard to the mountain ruins. Varric had to bow out at the last minute due to some crisis in the international fleece market, but he managed to secure for them a small wagon and a pair of mules to pull it. The wagon also came with a wagoneer - a leathery-looking dwarf bearing dark tattoos on his face and an impressive collection of scars on his arms.

"Knife fights," he said laconically, when he caught Shepard looking at them. "Them and the brands are all that's left of my proud dwarven heritage." And he spat expertly by way of punctuation.

The dwarf was called Odd, and his wagon was of Rivaini construction - something like a cross between a gypsy's wagon and an old west chuckwagon. It could sleep someone in a pinch, along benches that ran along the sides, but it was intended more as a way to move people and a modest amount of belongings from place to place. Instead, awnings could be stretched from each side of the wagon to form fairly snug tents against inclement weather, and the rear panel could be let down to reveal a neat and compact galley.

Shepard was impressed, both by the set up and by Varric's foresight. None of them knew much about beasts of burden - Sebastian was the only one of Hawke's companions with any idea how to handle horses, and the exiled prince would not be traveling with them. Left to their own devices with the mule team, Shepard thought there'd have been trouble before they'd managed a whole mile.

A less pleasant surprise, however, was the hulking shape that stalked up as they were loading the wagon with their supplies and gear.

"Arishok?" exclaimed Shepard with some trepidation. "What are you doing here?"

"Shanedan, Shepard," replied the giant. "I have come to satisfy a demand."

Shepard folded her arms on her chest and eyed him warily. "And what demand does the qun make now?"

The Arishok's golden eyes lingered over her, as if memorizing every inch. "This is… a _personal_ demand."

The Spectre shifted uncomfortably, but before she could stammer out a request for clarification, the giant turned abruptly away from her.

"Shanedan, Hawke," he murmured to the rogue. "You accompany Shepard on this fool's errand?"

Hawke managed a smile for the qunari leader. "Shanedan, Arishok," she answered. "Yes, I'm going with Shepard. I… could use some time away from the city."

The Arishok studied the rogue silently for a moment more, then cast his eyes over the others. "The archer of the Chantry is not here," he noted with satisfaction.

"That _was_ the bargain we struck," Shepard pointed out.

"You bring the elf who knows the qun," he rumbled approvingly with a nod to Fenris, which the elf returned. But the approval was short lived, as the Arishok's stare settled on Anders.

"Anders is our healer," Shepard offered.

"Bas-saarebas," corrected the giant shortly.

Anders' jaw clenched at the title, but before he could open his mouth, Shepard responded, "The bas-saarebas who has _saved my life_ on several occasions," with a slight edge in her voice.

The Arishok made a dismissive sound in the back of his throat, but to Shepard's mild astonishment made no further comment to her. Instead, he spoke a single word in qunlat and gave a slight inclination of his head. Only then did Shepard realize that the Arishok was accompanied by two other kossith.

One of them strode forward at the gesture. "Basra," he intoned, his familiar blood-orange eyes regarding Shepard calmly.

"Ashaad? But… your arm?"

"It is better," said the warrior evenly.

"The ashaad will accompany you as well," stated the Arishok flatly.

Shepard grit her teeth. _This wasn't part of the deal, you jackass…_

"I will be honored to have him as _part of my squad_," she ground out, emphasizing the end of the sentence.

The Arishok stepped closer to her, close enough that she could smell the leather of his armor and the steel and oil of his weapons.

_God. Must every man around me smell like Thane?_

"Was there something else?" she snapped.

His eyes burned into hers intently. "Return quickly, Shepard," he said in a low voice.

And with that, the massive kossith turned and stalked back into the confusion around the landward gate.

**-ooo-**

They were little more than an hour outside the city gates when Odd reined in the mules and glanced back at Shepard through the open window behind the driver's bench.

"Someone's catching us up," he said.

Shepard climbed down from the wagon and looked back in the direction they'd come. Sure enough, there was a stirring of dust that indicated someone or something moving fast along the road.

"Messenger, maybe?" suggested Shepard.

Hawke dropped down beside her. "Expensive messenger, then. It's moving too fast to be someone on foot."

"Not enough dust for a horse," Odd said. "Could be a pony, or a pony mule."

Ashaad unslung his bow. "We will know soon, basra," he said simply, slowly pulling an arrow from its quiver. He nocked it but did not draw the bow.

"Let's not be hasty, Ashaad," Shepard reminded the qunari, casting him a sidelong glance. "We'll find out what he wants, first."

Fenris and Anders climbed out of the wagon as well.

"We can't go anywhere without upsetting someone, can we?" Anders grumbled.

Shepard raised a hand. "We don't know we've upset anyone yet."

"At that speed?" The healer snorted.

Ashaad frowned. "I do not hear hoofbeats."

Fenris narrowed his eyes. "He's right," the elf agreed after a moment.

Merrill poked her head out the window at the back of the wagon. "What's the problem?" she asked, tilting her head curiously.

"Something's coming up fast on the road," Hawke explained.

Merrill lifted one hand to shade her eyes, and gasped. "By the Dread Wolf!" she exclaimed. "I think it _is_ the Dread Wolf!"

"A wolf would not follow the road so openly," said Ashaad, his jaw firming. But his fingers drew back slightly on his bowstring.

"Oh, no," Merrill corrected, "not _a_ wolf. Fen'Harel, the _Dread_ Wolf. He's _much_ worse."

The qunari's brow furrowed deeply. "What nonsense do you speak?"

"It's not nons…" Merrill began heatedly, and stopped, squinting down the road. "Oh," she said contritely. "Oh dear. I didn't mean to… and with the dust and the sunlight glaring off the road like that…"

"It's all right, Merrill," began Shepard. "Just calm down and tell us what you…"

"I mean, all right, I feel a bit silly now…"

"Merrill?" said Hawke, reaching back to loosen her daggers in their sheaths. But the elf babbled on nervously.

"… Really, why do I always say things like that? It's not like I _want_ to live in a permanent state of embarrassment…"

"What do you see, witch?!" demanded Fenris sharply, his hand hovering over the pommel of his greatsword.

Merrill seemed to notice the tension in the people around her for the first time. "Oh, sorry!" she blinked, and blushed furiously.

"It's just Griffon…"

**-ooo-**

_And just like that, you go from a squad of five to a squad of seven. _

Shepard sighed as she looked around the night's encampment. They'd managed only a little over twelve miles before halting for the day in a cleared area just off the road, where a natural spring trickled from a crack in the rock. By the look of it, the spot was a frequent camp for travelers.

Odd had seen to the mules, who were chewing the scrubby weeds that made a tenacious living among the sandstone with every sign of enjoyment, or at least contentment. Shepard had divided the group into three watches, with two per watch. Griffon - for indeed it had been Hawke's warhound charging after them - wasn't assigned a watch, but Shepard suspected that he'd provide a little extra security nonetheless.

Anders had taken the first stint of galley duty, preparing a meal of dried meat, hard cheese and bread as there was no wood to be had for a fire. Shepard, Hawke, and Fenris had laid out the bedrolls, while Merrill refilled their waterskins and carried a few buckets to top up the barrel inside the wagon that held water for the mules. According to Odd, they would not always be so lucky in their future encampments.

Shepard took the middle watch with Ashaad. The horned warrior spent much of the watch flexing and relaxing his right wrist and forearm - strengthening exercises for the damaged limb, Shepard guessed.

She gave a short nod at the arm. "How's it feeling?" she asked. Not, _are you okay, _or _are you sure you're all right_ - Shepard knew that neither Asa or the Arishok would have sent him if he was less than fully healed. But she also knew that there was a gap that existed between _fully healed_ and _back to normal_.

Generally, in her experience, it was a painful one.

"It is fine," muttered the kossith shortly.

Shepard gave him a knowing grin. "Still hurts, huh?"

"It is fine," Ashaad snapped.

Shepard folded her arms on her chest and raised an eyebrow. Ashaad shifted slightly, and his eyes swung away from hers.

"It is stiff," he admitted after a moment. Now his eyes flashed to hers, almost challengingly, as if daring her to comment further.

She shrugged. "I imagine it is," she said, and let the matter drop, though she filed away a reminder to herself to keep an eye on the qunari's recovery.

They were back on the road early the following morning, Shepard wanting to make more miles than they had the first day. The terrain was still rocky in places, however, the road twisting along the cliffs overlooking the Waking Sea and slowing their progress. Odd said the cliffs would begin giving way to the forest in another day or so, when the going would be easier for the mules.

"Unless it rains, 'course," the dwarf told her, spitting toward what Shepard thought of as the starboard mule's plodding hooves. "If it rains, all bets are off. We'll be slogging through mud and lucky to make eight or ten miles in a day with the wagon loaded like this."

Shepard frowned. "Would it help if we walked?"

Odd snorted. "Wouldn't be any choice," he answered. "You'll walk, and you'll push, if it rains."

Shepard grimaced. "How likely is it that the weather will change?"

The dwarf shrugged. "Well, it ain't winter or spring." He squinted thoughtfully at the sky. "Could hold fine," he went on uncertainly. "Been up here thirty years now, but I still ain't good at weather." He spat again, and grinned. "Say what you like about Dust Town, but at least there's no weather."

"I wouldn't know what to say about Dust Town," Shepard replied frankly. "Never heard of it. What country is it in?"

Odd laughed. "Should'a' known, given you're friends with a duster like Varric Tethras." At Shepard's raised eyebrow he continued. "You've heard of Orzammar? Well, Dust Town is where Orzammar shoves its dirty little secrets."

"Slums?" Shepard guessed.

Odd barked another laugh. "Slums are a step up from Dust Town!"

He shook his head and spat down the middle of the two mules. "I recognize your healer there," his words were accompanied by a jerk of his head over his shoulder, "and so I know you've been in Darktown. Dust Town is similar, but without the finer points."

"Darktown has finer points?" Shepard hazarded. "I must have missed them."

"Well, occasionally it doesn't smell _completely_ like shite."

"It's a sewer, Odd," Shepard pointed out. "It's _supposed_ to smell like shit."

The dwarf grinned. "You an expert?"

"A connoisseur," she corrected with a grin of her own. "Is Dust Town part of the sewers in Orzammar? Is that why it smells like shit?"

"Nah. Most of the shite in Dust Town walks around on two legs, and it smells like a ripe nug that's been rotting for ten days. And that's on the _good_ days."

"I can see why you left."

Odd shrugged. "It wasn't the smell that made me leave Dust Town, or the violence, or even the sheer hopelessness and misery of that stinking hole. I would'a' still been down there if I hadn't fallen in - and then out - with the Carta."

Shepard raised a curious eyebrow. "That sounds like a story."

The dwarf gave her a look and snorted. "And not one I'm planning on tellin', so you can forget I mentioned it."

**-ooo-**

For someone used to motorized travel, a mule wagon is a test of patience. And Shepard wasn't big on patience at the best of times.

It was near midday, and they'd stopped to rest and water the mules and have a bite of lunch.

"I could walk faster," complained Shepard, as she tore at a strip of jerky with her teeth.

"You could," replied Odd mildly, draining a leather jack of small beer. "'Course, it would be you doin' the walking, _and_ the carrying."

"Speaking as someone who has done more than his fair share of walking, I'm happy with the mules," Anders offered. "You can't have horses or mules in the Dark Roads - they panic."

"That's what brontos are for," Odd said easily. "If you can stand the smell."

The healer shook his head and shuddered. "I can't. And besides, they've got shifty little eyes. No animal that big should have shifty little eyes. They look like they're up to something."

Odd gave a bark of laughter. "Brontos don't have enough brain to be up to something." He narrowed his eyes. "What would bring a surfacer like you into the Dark Roads? Hardly a holiday spot."

"Warden," said Anders shortly.

The dwarf's brows rose slightly. "Condolences," he said. "They give you a nice funeral?"

It was Anders turn to laugh. "Nope. Never got one."

Odd shook his head in disappointment.

"Bastards."

**-ooo-**

Three days out from Kirkwall, as Odd had indicated, the road had begun to wind down out of the high cliffs toward the Planasene Forest, promising smoother travel in some ways, but perhaps not in others.

In a place where the road ran between a half-dozen massive, tumbled boulders, a makeshift barricade had been constructed from a pair of upended barrels and a balk of timber. Behind the crude barrier, three muscular, well-armored men lounged with every appearance of ease, straightening as the small wagon drew near.

"Afternoon, my good dwarf," called out the largest of the three, his eyes flicking appraisingly over Odd, the ashaad, and Griffon. The dwarf wore a simple pair of knives strapped to the front of his tunic, and Ashaad's massive longbow was strung, but resting against the quiver on the qunari's back. The mabari, however, like all his kind, was a readied weapon in and of himself.

The man smiled in satisfaction. "Now," he drawled lazily, "there's two ways this can go; the easy way, and the _not_-so-easy way."

Odd sighed as he reined in the mules. "Just shift the bloody gate, boys. I won't ask twice."

"Counting on your pets to protect yer?" asked one of the others with a leer.

Ashaad folded his arms over his chest. Griffon settled to his haunches, ears pricked attentively and eyes on the men.

Odd spat over the side of the driver's bench. "Really wasn't expecting you boys to be this stupid," he answered.

"Oh, we aren't the stupid ones," said the leader, and gave a short, high whistle.

Men and women emerged from behind the boulders, holding loaded crossbows. Odd counted more than a dozen, easy.

In the silence that followed, the creak of the wagon door opening seemed very loud. Shepard, her rifle cradled easily in her hands, dropped to the packed dirt of the road.

"Is there a problem?" she asked Odd, but her eyes were on the bandit chief.

"There will be if they don't clear the road," Odd replied. "I'm too short for this shite."

Behind Shepard, Fenris also stepped down, rolling his shoulders to settle the scabbard of his sword in place.

The two men flanking the bandit chief dropped hands to their weapons, eyes narrowing as they watched the elven warrior.

"I'm still waiting for an answer," said the bandit, though some of the bravado had gone out of his voice. "Easy or hard, it's up to you."

Hawke jumped lightly from the wagon. "Oh look," she said with a ghost of her old manner, "my _favorite_!"

"We still outnumber you," pointed out the bandit chief with exaggerated reasonableness.

"What in Andraste's knickers are we waiting for _this_ time?" Anders' voice was tinged with exasperation as he stretched his back and stepped out, swinging his arms gently to loosen them.

"A Mexican standoff, evidently," replied Shepard.

"What's one of those?" asked Merrill, swinging nimbly up to the roof of the wagon, the staff on her back clearly visible to the men behind the barricade. Her eyes opened wide. "It looks a lot like bandits to me."

Shepard's eyes hadn't left the chief. "Yep."

"I thought you said it was a Mexican standoff?"

The Spectre's shoulders flexed, and she rolled her head from side to side without breaking her gaze. "Figure of speech, Merrill," she admitted. "I think it's _really_ just an unfortunate error in judgment."

In a fluid motion, Shepard brought Garrus to her shoulder and sighted on the leader's forehead. "Stand down, gentlemen."

The bandit folded his arms on his chest with slightly forced arrogance. "You have a dozen bows trained on you," he said. "My men will cut you down before you can move."

Odd's hands moved in a blur, and there was a glint of spinning metal just before the meaty sound of knives burying themselves in flesh.

"Make that ten, now," the dwarf said with an evil grin, diving off the bench as the bandits opened fire.

Shepard dropped her rifle and sprinted forward, catching the ashaad with her shoulder and taking him to the ground. Arrows pinwheeled off her shields or shattered on impact as she used her body to protect the giant's head and torso.

With an angry roar, the kossith heaved Shepard off of him, rolling to his feet and reaching for his longbow. Hawke was already leaping the barricade, and Fenris simply whirled his great blade in an arc that chopped the bolts out of the air.

Another of the bowmen was down, hands pushing futilely at Griffon's head and his legs flailing madly in an attempt to lever himself out from under the big dog's savage teeth and claws. The thunk of an arrow in the mabari's haunch just seemed to make the warhound angrier.

Shepard scooped up her rifle and rolled to one knee, bracing herself while she lined up a careful shot that took down a sword-and-shield wielding bandit rushing up on Hawke. The loud crack of the rifle's report echoed off the boulders and caused no few of the bandits to flinch.

Merrill had encased a group of three bandits in stone, fusing them to the boulders around them. Anders followed up with a wave of freezing ice and a shouted word to Fenris, who shattered them with a blow of his sword.

The remaining bandits drew back in a defensive huddle, some of them madly trying to re-cock crossbows.

"You should'a' shifted the nug-humping barricade," called Odd, throwing another knife to drop a dirty blond next to the bandit chief. One of Ashaad's arrows took out another - a whip-thin redheaded woman with a scarred face.

"Stop!" shouted the bandit chief, after Shepard's rifle boomed a second time but before her target could crumple to the ground.

"Stand down," Shepard ordered her squad and moved forward, rifle still at the ready. "Let's hear what the man has to say."

"Andraste's tits and ass! Enough," the bandit panted. "We surrender."

"'Ere, are you daft?!" said one of his surviving thugs, a huge man with a heavy waraxe. "We _never_ surrender!"

"Look around," snapped the chief. "They took down more'n half our number in a blink! They've got mages! **Two** of them! The flamin' dog's spitted half through and looks like he'll _still_ chew your flamin' face off - once he's finished with what's left of old Angus, anyway. It'd be sui…"

There was the heavy twang of a hundred-plus pound bowstring, and the man with the ax fell over backward, Ashaad's slate-gray fletching sprouting from his forehead.

Shepard tried to look like she'd anticipated this. "Anyone _else_ have an argument with surrender?" she asked, shooting a look at Ashaad that promised the sharp side of her tongue when they were finished.

The general consensus was that that surrender was an excellent idea.

"Drop your weapons and put your hands on your heads," Shepard instructed. Her rifle hadn't wavered a centimeter.

"And don't even think of it, duster," warned Odd sharply. "That's _you_ on the end with the shifty eyes and the brigandine. Get your fingers away from that knife or I'll chop 'em off."

A bandit on the edge of the huddle made a careful show of raising his empty hands.

"That's better," said the dwarf with satisfaction.

"Step back and spread out in a single line, arms-length apart," Shepard barked as the huddle started to constrict a little around the bandit chief. "Ashaad, Merrill, cover them. Hawke, Fenris, sort through this crap and see if there's anything worth our time. Anders, see what you can do for Griffon."

"Um, Shepard?" asked the elven girl uncertainly, "What would you like me to cover them _with_?"

Shepard tuned her brain to radio Merrill, and re-phrased herself. "I mean shoot anyone who reaches for a weapon. And _only_ anyone who reaches for a weapon," she added sharply to the qunari. "Are we clear, Ashaad?"

"What should I…" Merrill began.

"Whatever you've got," Shepard answered firmly, before the girl could finish.

The elf's normally sunny expression hardened. "Oh, _good_," she said, nastily. "_That_ one shot Griffon. I hope _he_ tries something."

"Y'oughta make 'em strip off," suggested Odd as Shepard shifted Garrus into low ready.

The Spectre's expression blanked for a moment as she considered this suggestion. "Any particular reason why?" she asked, genuinely curious.

"Hard to intimidate a man when he's laughin' at your goods on display," the dwarf answered. He paused and gave a scratch of his chin. "That, and all that armor's got to be worth a sovereign or two."

"Your suggestion has been duly noted and dismissed, Odd," Shepard said crisply. "But you can get to work moving that shit," she gestured to the makeshift barrier with the butt of her rifle, "out of our way."

The dwarf gave the Spectre a speculative look and opened his mouth to argue, but something in her expression made him say, "Right," instead.

"There's nothing special here," called Hawke from the weapons pile, a hint of disappointment in her voice. "But it's all worth something."

"No," said Shepard, shaking her head. "We've got enough loaded on the wagon as it is," and at this the bandit chief's expression was briefly one of a man considering suicide by Spectre until the creak of Ashaad's longbow brought his survival instinct back in force.

Hawke shrugged in response and moved off to examine the fallen corpses. After the second, she gave a low cry.

"Maker's shiny asshole!" she exclaimed triumphantly, reverently holding a sheathed dagger in her hands. "Fenris, come take a look at this!" There was more excitement in her voice than any of them had heard since before Leandra's death. "I think it's a mate to the one I found down in Darktown. Look at the runescripting on the blade."

Fenris bent his head over the weapon she unsheathed, a substantial-looking dagger bearing a curved guard studded with short spikes - the blade of someone who would take any edge they could in a fight. "It does look similar," the elf conceded. "Though as I recall, the blade of that dagger was worked from silverite. This one looks more like blacked steel or onyx."

Odd heaved the last barrel of the barricade aside and ambled over curiously.

"Stoneshite!" he exclaimed when he saw it. "That's a Carta smallsword, or I'm the Empress Celine!"

Hawke put her head on one side and let the corner of her mouth curl upward. "I thought you'd be taller, Your Imperialness."

Odd gave her a scowl and reached for the dagger. "It _is_ a Carta smallsword," the dwarf affirmed, pointing to a mark on the pommel of the hilt. "See here." He shook his head. "They don't give bronto-stickers like these out to just anybody. _These_ are for elite Carta assassins, not simple thugs and smugglers." The dwarf turned the blade gently, running a finger over the runescripting. "Beautiful work," he said, handing the long dagger back to Hawke regretfully. "The left and right hands of the Carta," he murmured, half to himself. "You plan on keeping it?"

Hawke nodded. "I have another at home that's very similar," she said. "It's a beautiful blade, but it doesn't balance well with any of my others," she slid the knife back into its sheath and tucked it into her belt, "so I haven't used it much."

"Good luck with that," Odd snorted.

"Why?" asked Hawke, her brow furrowing slightly. "Are they cursed, or something?"

"If the Carta catches you with 'em you'll certainly be cursing," the dwarf predicted.

Hawke made a _psshh_ing sound of dismissal. "They can get in line."

Odd looked from Hawke to Shepard and back again.

"You know," he said, "I'm starting to think Tethras didn't pay me enough for this job."

**-ooo-**

After due consideration, Shepard had Merrill encase the bandits' weapons in stone and had everyone but Anders and Griffon fall in to escort positions around the wagon as they continued on their way. Ashaad and Shepard took drag, with Hawke and Fenris to either side of the driver's bench. Merrill skipped ahead in point, though Shepard was beginning to have doubts about the wisdom of this decision, despite the elf's sharp eyesight and familiarity with forests.

Anders had removed the bolt from Griffon's hip and healed the mabari as best he could, but the wound was a serious one and Hawke insisted, with much fussing, that he ride nestled in her bedroll on the floor of the wagon. Smart beast that he was, Griffon made pathetic whining noises and soaked up his mistress' sympathy and attention until she was out of sight, whereupon he fixed Anders with a look of smug satisfaction.

"Enjoy it now," the healer told the dog. "You won't be so pleased when you want to chase rabbits later and she won't let you."

**-ooo-**

It was Hawke's turn to cook, so once they'd made camp for the evening, Shepard finally had the time to take care of some unfinished business.

"Fenris, you're on sentry duty. Ashaad and I are going to have a little chat," she said, and the word _chat_ could have kept a side of beef chilled for a month.

"You," she said, pointing at the offending kossith, "with me, _now_."

There was an art to that voice, Shepard knew. Some commanders never truly mastered it. The ones who did could get a corpse to stand up, salute, and follow orders.

The blood orange eyes tightened slightly, but the ashaad fell in behind her as she marched them some distance from the camp. When she felt they were far enough away that her voice would at least be slightly muffled by the trees, she rounded on the giant.

"What the _fuck_ did you think you were doing earlier, shooting a surrendering man?" she demanded.

The ashaad regarded her evenly. "He did not wish to surrender," the giant rumbled.

"He didn't have a choice!" Shepard snapped.

"No," agreed Ashaad, his meaning completely different. "He did not."

Shepard advanced on the kossith, reflecting belatedly that trying to get in someone's face when you only came up to their chest was a challenge. "His commander had surrendered," she ground out. "That made him our prisoner. I do not shoot prisoners without justification!"

"He did not intend to submit," replied Ashaad, looking down his nose at her. "That made him a threat."

"In the middle of a firefight, I trust my soldiers to take independent action in assessing threats," she said forcefully. "But in a command situation - _such as an enemy surrender -_ I expect my soldiers to _follow orders_." Her eyes flashed dangerously. "In those circumstances, _I_ decide who and what constitutes an acceptable threat."

"He was armed."

"Yes, he was," Shepard acknowledged. "With a _fucking ax_. A _big_ fucking ax," she clarified. "Not a ranged weapon, or a concealed weapon. _An ax_. The threat was minimal, and he deserved the option to surrender peacefully."

"He would not have done so."

Shepard glared at him. "And the moment he raised that ax to throw or charge, he would have died," she said flatly. "_Not before_."

"There was no point in waiting," the qunari disagreed. "Doing so only encouraged the others."

"That is certainly a valid position to take," Shepard replied coldly. "And I acknowledge it. The point is not that I don't _understand_ your course of action. It's that it wasn't _my_ course of action. _My_ order was to stand down and give those primitive screwheads a chance for the surrender they _asked_ for."

"I was instructed keep you safe, basra," Ashaad said stubbornly.

The qunari was not prepared for the speed with which Shepard suddenly grabbed the back of his neck and hauled him down to her eye level. "I don't give a flying _fuck_ what orders the Arishok gave you," she said in a low voice. "You're a part of _my_ squad now, and that means you follow _my_ orders." Her eyes bored into his fiercely. "Do you understand?"

"The Arishok…"

"I said _do you understand_, soldier!" Shepard bellowed.

The ashaad blinked. "Yes," he said stiffly.

"Good," she said. "We will _not_ have this conversation again. You try breaking rank on me again, and you can pack your ass back to your precious Arishok, understood?"

"Yes, basra."

Shepard's eyes narrowed. "No. Not good enough. For the duration of this mission, I am not _'basra'_," her fingers tightened slightly with the word. "I am your commanding officer, and you will address me properly. That means _yes, ma'am_ or _yes, commander_. So help me god, I'm not one for pulling rank like some fucking HQ desk jockey that's never gotten blood on his bars, but in this case I want to make things _crystal clear_, you hear me?"

There was a brief but deep rumble from the kossith.

"_What was that, soldier?"_ Not even the most feared DIs at the Villa ever put such deadly intent into that question.

"Yes, commander."

"Good." This word was said quietly, without force, and Shepard released her hold on Ashaad's neck. She lifted her head and pulled her shoulders back, meeting the orange eyes evenly. "Dismi… you may return to camp now."

The giant turned and stalked back toward the camp, his gait stiff and his displeasure obvious.

Shepard sighed and shook herself like a dog shedding water. One hand scrubbed her face tiredly.

"I think I preferred dealing with a pubescent krogan..."

**-ooo-**

It was the end of their fourth day in the Planasene Forest. Shepard had underestimated the sheer size of the damned thing, or possibly overestimated the speed with which the two mules could pull the heavily loaded wagon. Though the road through the forest was not at all rocky, allowing the mules to travel at an easy trot, asking the animals to move faster only meant they needed to rest them more frequently.

"We're carrying a lot, and they're not mammoths," Odd told her when Shepard grumbled about it.

"I can see that," the Spectre replied snidely. "Mammoths have much larger teeth and more hair."

The dwarf gave her a strange look. "Well, yeah. Of course they do," he said. "They're _bigger_."

This caused a moment of confusion for everyone, which was only alleviated when Odd explained that mammoths were a heavier type of mule from draft horse mares, and Shepard explained that mammoths were also huge, shaggy, extinct mammals with tusks.

To top it off, it appeared Ashaad had closed the embassy and severed all diplomatic ties with Shepard, maintaining an offended silence broken only when he was directly required to answer her. Shepard supposed she'd been blunt with the qunari, but, _dammit_, he was supposed to be a soldier and it was every soldier's fate to get smoked once in a while. Although Shepard preferred a less formal approach to command, believing strongly in leading by example and in two-way loyalty, there were times - she vividly recalled standing nose-to-nose with an incensed krogan on a beach on Virmire - where she took a hard line. And hell if she was going to be saddled with _anyone_ who believed he had complete autonomy on one of _her_ missions.

This, she reflected, was probably why Spectres so rarely worked together.

Still, it nagged at her. She expected a certain amount of give-and-take with Hawke and her crew, given they were civilians, but Ashaad was a soldier and had been since he was still a kid. Soldiers learned to follow orders, to submit to chain of command.

_Except _you _don't exist in his chain of command, Shepard._

"Fucking pointy-headed pain in the ass," she muttered.

"Oh, he's not that bad," Hawke replied, stacking firewood next to Shepard by the simple expedient of dropping the armload she carried. "Having him here's made Merrill happy, at any rate."

Shepard shook her head. "I wasn't referring to _that_ pointy-headed pain in the ass."

"Ah." Hawke nodded sagely, seating herself on a nearby rock and watching as Shepard haphazardly balanced wood into a cone shape. The rogue leaned forward and rested her forearms on her knees. "You ready to tell someone what's been going on between you and the qunari yet?"

Shepard growled. "He's a pushy bastard who won't take no for an answer. I'm a pushy bitch who can't keep her mouth shut and hates to back down from a fight." She stared at the wood as if she could light it with the fury of her gaze alone. "It turns out this is not the best combination to have, particularly among kossith."

Hawke grinned. "No," she said with mock surprise, "you don't say?"

Shepard shot her an unfriendly look.

"But that's hardly _complicated_, is it?" the rogue went on shrewdly.

"You'd think," Shepard muttered, using a small incendiary charge to start the fire. It wasn't necessary, but it made her feel a bit better.

"So why aren't you a smudge on the docks? Why does the touchy leader of a touchy people actually listen to you?" Hawke's eyes were narrowed slyly, and her grin had become slightly predatory. It was clear that the rogue had been thinking about it for a while - probably for some time before Leandra's death threw her into deep mourning. "Why would he post a guard on you? What is it that you have that he wants, Shepard? And don't try to tell me that you don't know."

Shepard glared at the rogue. "If you breathe a word of this to anyone - _anyone_ - I will make your life miserable as best I know how. _Especially_ Isabela."

Hawke's head slowly tipped to the side, one eyebrow creeping up her forehead. "_Especially Isabela?_"

Before Hawke could voice any further speculation, Shepard resignedly mumbled the truth.

"He wants to mate with me."

"He wants to _what_?!" Maybe, in twenty years or so, when Shepard was _really drunk_ and telling stories about the aftermath of the Reaper War, Hawke's expression of stunned disbelief would be funny.

"You heard me."

"He _wants_ to _mate_ with you? _The Arishok_ wants to mate with you?" Maybe, in five minutes or so, when Hawke got over her initial surprise, Shepard's declaration would be funny.

"Yes," said the Spectre sourly.

Make that two minutes. Hawke bit her lip to keep from laughing.

"That's what all this has been about? The frequent abductions, the bodyguard, the… _Maker's cock!_ Sebastian! He thinks you and Sebastian are… he's _jealous_?!"

"Hawke? You can shut up now." The stiffness in Shepard's shoulders usually meant a very bad day for someone.

_Maybe we'll be attacked by bandits again. I could really stand to hit something. Hard._

The rogue slowly recovered herself. "If it will get him off your back - _sorry_ - why not just do it?" she suggested.

"I don't want to." The sulkiness in her own voice reminded Shepard rather unpleasantly of a pouting child.

"Andraste's tits!" exclaimed Hawke. "Why _not_?!"

Shepard gaped at her, jaw slack. That wasn't the response she expected.

"What?" she managed, after a moment.

"Maker's breath, Shepard! Why _wouldn't_ you want to have sex with him? He's…" Hawke's hands waved in the air, trying to describe the indescribable. "_Why?_" It was almost plaintive. "If it wasn't for…" Hawke's mouth snapped closed and she blinked as if someone had just flicked water in her face, making Shepard wonder what the end of that sentence contained.

"Let's say, if things were a little different, I'd definitely _satisfy some demands of the qun_ if it was me."

"He won't let it go," Shepard complained. "I've said no and he keeps telling me it's going to happen, like it's inevitable or something."

"I wouldn't let it go either…" Hawke leered.

"Hawke!"

"What?! Sorry, it's just… he's the _Arishok_."

"Yes," said Shepard tightly. "I'm aware."

Hawke shook her head. "You really aren't interested? Not even a _little_?"

"_Your body responds to me…"_

"No." Shepard shifted her weight to her other foot uncomfortably. "Yes." She dropped her head in her hands, muffling her voice. "A little. Maybe."

"Well?"

"I loved Thane," Shepard pointed out. "Very much."

Hawke shrugged. "So?"

"So? So I'm not going to fuck some giant no matter how…" Shepard's hands flailed in much the same way Hawke's had earlier, "…he is!"

"But you do think he's…" the rogue grinned.

Shepard folded her arms on her chest. "I can think a sunset is pretty, too. That doesn't mean I want to have sex with it!"

"Well, it's not as if the sunset wants to have sex with you, either. The Arishok does."

"What are you two talking about?" Anders asked curiosly, coming up to the fire.

Shepard shot a warning glance at Hawke. "Nothing," she lied. "Hawke was just shooting her mouth off. I think she must think we miss Isabela."

Anders snorted. "Just so long as she doesn't carve…_anatomy_…into the wagon," he said.

"Bodahn sanded it out for me," Hawke sighed. "It doesn't matter, though. I'll always know it was there."

Shepard rolled her eyes heavenward and clicked her heels together sharply.

"There's no place like home. There's no place like home."

* * *

_A/N: I have **got** to get my broadband connection back. This whole hanging out at Starbucks for the wifi thing just isn't cutting it._

_I am _hoping_ to get the next chapter up sooner, but no promises._


	45. Chapter 44

**Chapter Forty-Four**

_Shepard awoke reaching for the pistol she always kept on the bedside table. Her hand closed over the grip, worn smooth by the constant scuff of armored fingers, and she sat up, swinging the Carnifex to cover the room as she scanned for the source of the noise that had awakened her._

_Thane stared back at her from the cabin's steps, his bare skin illuminated and dappled by the soft rippled reflections from the fishtank._

"_Siha?" he murmured, a hint of amusement in his voice and in the brow he arched at her._

"_Thane," Shepard breathed, sagging and letting the muzzle of the heavy pistol drop toward the floor. "God. Sorry."_

"_There is no need to apologize," he returned, continuing down the steps as if his lover hadn't just pulled a small cannon on him, his amusement now obvious._

"_You wouldn't be smirking if I'd actually shot you," she grumbled at him, leaning over to replace the gun on the nightstand._

_Thane's lips curved as he seated himself on the edge of the bed. "I had no fear of that happening."_

"_Would you listen to the cocky bastard?" she teased, as Thane's hand slid gently up her arm. _

"_It has nothing to do with arrogance," the assassin replied, leaning forward to close the distance between them, "but with trust. I trust you, siha. With all that I have."_

_His lips met hers in one of his slow, sensual kisses - the kind that left her trembling and lightheaded, and not from the compound in his skin's oils that turned prolonged oral contact into a trip on the magic bus of the 1960's. Shepard surrendered herself to the seductive slide of his mouth on hers, the taste of him, the erotic rasp of his tongue - slightly different in texture than a human's - against her own. She heard his deep inhale as he dragged his lower lip along her jaw, knowing that he was enjoying breathing in her scent and hating herself for listening for the little hitch that had recently developed. The Kepral's was progressing faster, now._

"_What dreams so disturb your slumber that you would wake with a gun in your hand?" he murmured into her ear._

_Shepard let her head fall back, baring her throat to her lover. "I don't know," she said, a faint crease wrinkling her brow. "Just that it was bad."_

_Thane's teeth nipped gently at her skin, raising goosebumps. "Shall I chase them away, these dreams of yours?"_

"_Oh, yes," Shepard breathed, as she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him to her. "Please do."_

**-ooo-**

"Shepard."

It was the barest hiss in the darkness, and it was accompanied by a firm hand on her arm.

Shepard came awake immediately, groping for a weapon that wasn't there, on a piece of furniture that wasn't there, before realizing where she was. Emerald eyes were staring at her from under pale hair that shone faintly silver in the moonlight, and by the dying embers of the fire, it must be deep into third watch - drawn by Fenris and Ashaad this evening - and only a few hours from dawn.

Shepard rolled to a crouch. Fenris leaned closer, his breath tickling her ear. "Movement," he said in a faint whisper. "Humans, many of them, surrounding the camp."

"Wake the others," she ordered, her voice hardly more than a breath. "Take Griffon and scout the perimeter, counter-clockwise. Have Hawke and the mages guard the camp. Ashaad and I will make a wide patrol clockwise."

The elf gave a silent nod, and slipped over to Hawke's bedroll.

Shepard didn't bother to clip Garrus to her backplate, or to pull on the gauntlets she'd removed before sleeping. She clutched the rifle in one hand and slipped away from the fire, toward the shadowy, immobile form of Ashaad on the edge of their camp.

A brief glance in her direction let Shepard know he was aware of her presence, so she didn't bother to gain his attention. She simply jerked her head once in the direction of the trees, settling Garrus into low ready, before moving off. She pressed a good twenty meters into the forest, working quietly through the sparse underbrush in a half crouch. Shepard was unsurprised to find that Ashaad's movements were even more silent than her own - an impressive skill for such a large creature. She remembered trying to creep up on some Cerberus troops on Gellix with James in tow, and being thankful for the centurions' heavy armor for once as the big marine lumbered along with all the stealth of a charging rhinoceros.

It was Ashaad who spotted the first man, inching in toward their camp with a drawn sword. As the man gasped in a startled breath, the qunari's hand latched on to his sword arm and yanked him up against the kossith's painted chest, where a deft motion of Ashaad's other hand and wrist snapped the man's neck. The entire encounter took less than a minute, and the loudest sound was the muffled thump of the man's body hitting the ground.

Shepard squatted down by the corpse, checking for anything that might shed light on who he was and what his motives might be, apart from the most obvious answer of general banditry. That thought caused her to take a closer look at his face, frowning in recollection.

She made a slight hand gesture to motion Ashaad to her side. "Familiar?" she asked.

The qunari nodded. They were the same group of bandits as before. Shepard's jaw clenched in irritation.

_There's just no helping some people. Give them an inch, and they'll come back and attempt the same stupid thing a second time._

Silently, Shepard gestured for the two of them to fan out and return to their patrol. Whether the bandits were ringing the camp with the intention of slowly constricting it or waiting to perform some kind of massed charge, Shepard and Ashaad had likely found the bandit's line. Now all they had to do was work their way along it.

She folded Garrus and clipped it in place on her backplate. Speed and silence would be their best weapons as they engaged the bandits. As much as she loved the rifle, it was neither of those things. She'd have to make due with her omni-blade.

The two of them managed to dispatch another two bandits before an alarm was sounded - or perhaps it was simply the signal for the bandits to charge. Either way, there was the bowel-knotting sound of snarls and screams that indicated that Griffon had found one of the unlucky bastards, followed by shouts and the ring of steel on steel.

As Shepard and Ashaad broke through the trees at the edge of their camp, they found a scene of general chaos. The bandits appeared to have replenished their numbers, and each of the squad members were being pressed by multiple enemies. Adding to the confusion and cacophany of battle was the sound of two angry, frightened mules, currently dancing around at the end of their tethers.

There was the thunk of a crossbow firing somewhere across the clearing and suddenly Ashaad was leaping forward and grabbing Shepard around the middle. Shepard, with more presence of mind than she'd have given herself credit for, spun around, pulling the qunari off-balance and putting herself squarely in harm's way, hearing the snapping of the crossbow bolt impacting her shields. The little do-si-do opened both she and Ashaad up to attack from closer quarters, and Shepard had to hastily raise her omni-blade to parry the thrust of a short sword.

Ashaad didn't bother with blocking or parrying the overhand chop aimed in his direction. He simply grabbed his attacker by the throat and threw the man into a tree so hard that a shower of leaves fell around them.

The fighting was fierce, but was soon over. The bandits had been relying on taking the camp by surprise, and were no more a match for the experienced squad than they had been previously. Hawke had taken a nasty cut across her calf, and the intricate red design on Ashaad's chest was marred by blood and a shallow slash that began over his left pectoral and ended over his bottom right rib. Griffon was also covered in blood, none of it belonging to the mabari this time, and the side of Odd's face was an angry red and swelling rapidly.

But Hawke was grinning to herself as she went through the pockets of the deceased, and the dwarf had an evil glint in the eye that wasn't starting to close. Merrill crooned and murmured silly nonsense to the mules as she tried to calm them, and Fenris was wiping his giant sword clean with a rag that looked suspiciously like the bottom of someone's tunic. Only Ashaad seemed unsatisfied with the outcome of the fight, as evidenced by his thunderous expression.

Concerned, Shepard moved closer to the giant. "Ashaad," she said, looking him over to assess the extent of his wounds, "how badly are you injured?"

"I am fine," he snapped, eyes angry.

"Then what's the problem?" Shepard asked, and then stalled his response by holding up a hand. "Besides the fact that in sparing these jackasses the other day, I gave them the opportunity to attack us a second time."

The ashaad simply folded his arms on his chest and glared at her.

"All right," she said, mirroring his pose. "Permission to speak freely, Ashaad. Tell me what's bothering you."

"You," he stated flatly.

Shepard's brow lifted, and she pretended not to hear the suppressed snort of laughter from Odd's direction. "Go on."

The muscles in the giant's jaw worked as he ground his teeth. "You put yourself in danger unnecessarily," he told her.

"I know, you think I should have killed them all the first time they attacked us," Shepard answered.

"It is not that," said the ashaad angrily. "Twice you have come between an enemy and myself. This cannot be allowed to continue."

"What?" Shepard blinked.

"You're angry because Shepard kept you from getting _shot_?" Anders asked incredulously, glancing up from where he was prodding Odd's cheekbone with his fingertips.

"It is my duty to keep you safe, bas… commander," he said with a stubborn set to his expression. "Yet you allow yourself to be injured for my sake. This must stop."

"Injured?" Quickly, Shepard took a physical inventory. "What are you talking about? I'm fine."

"You were shot," Ashaad growled.

"No I wasn't."

"You were."

"No, I wasn't." Shepard dropped her arms. "I'm wearing armor, Ashaad."

"Armor cannot always protect you," he pointed out.

"That's true. But it's better than," and here she reached out and poked him in the bare sternum, "no armor at all."

The qunari made an irritated rumble in the back of his throat.

"You're not armored, Ashaad. I am. I'm not going to let you take an arrow to prove your manliness, and that's final. Besides," she added, "it's not as if they're even making it through my shields."

At the kossith's expression, which was equal parts confusion and suspicion, Shepard had to laugh. "Come on," she gurgled. "I think an object lesson is called for."

Merrill put her hands over her eyes. "I can't watch."

Hawke laughed. "Oh, Shepard's not going to hurt your pretty qunari, Merrill," she assured the elf. "I think she has something else in mind."

"You'll never convince him to shoot you," Fenris told Shepard as she stirred the fire to a little more life.

"I wasn't planning on having _him_ shoot me," she smiled, striding over to a discarded crossbow and picking it up.

"You will."

**-ooo-**

To say that Ashaad was unhappy with events was to put things mildly.

"Dammit, Ashaad, get out of the way," Shepard growled, grabbing at the qunari's arm and trying to force the giant to one side. "I'm trying to make a point, here!"

"As am I," argued the ashaad.

Fenris rubbed his forehead wearily. "Can we get on with this?"

"No," said Ashaad.

"Go ahead," said Shepard.

The two glared at each other.

With a suddenness that should have put the qunari instantly on the defensive, Shepard sagged and capitulated. "Fine. Have it your way, you stupid ass." Her eyes flickered to Fenris and she gave the slightest of nods as she strode away from the giant. Ashaad watched her go, suspicion dawning slowly as she turned and flung her arms out to either side with a shout of, "Now!"

Fenris fired.

Even as Ashaad roared and charged forward, the bolt shattered amid a faint corona of blue a hands-width from Shepard's chest.

"What magic is this!?" Ashaad demanded, pulling up short and staring from Shepard to Fenris and back again.

"Ah-ah," called Anders. "Not magic. _Technology_."

"No magic," Shepard confirmed as Ashaad reached down and picked up the splintered shaft of the crossbow bolt.

The blood orange eyes narrowed, and the giant thrust out a hand, which connected solidly with Shepard's hardsuit.

"Ow. Hey," protested the Spectre.

The qunari's eyes narrowed further, and he drew an arrow out of his quiver, poking it at Shepard and earning a sputtered laugh from the same.

"Doesn't work unless it's moving a lot faster," she told him with a grin. "Feel free to shoot it at me, if you want."

"This is not magic?" the giant asked again, frowning.

"Is gaatlok magic?" Shepard countered.

The frown deepened. "Of course not."

Shepard held a hand out, palm up, meaning _there you go, then_.

"What is it?"

"A kinetic barrier."

"How does it work?"

"The simplified version goes something like this: if something comes at me with enough speed and mass, it either bounces off the barrier or breaks."

"All things?"

Shepard shook her head. "No. I can control the sensitivity to some extent, but there are some things that will probably never manage to trigger the shield, either because they're not massive enough or moving too slow, or both. Doesn't work well against biotics - or magic - either." She gave a jerk of her head to indicate Garrus. "You've seen what my rifle can do - these were designed to counteract those kinds of weapons."

"I hate to break up the good times," said Odd, as Anders worked on his swollen face, "But we need to break camp and get moving. There are things in this forest that will fight each other - and anything else around - for a buffet like this."

Shepard nodded. "We'll need to move the bodies then. Further into the woods, away from the road."

Anders' groan was heartfelt. "I'd hoped I'd never have to do _that_ again, either. Hawke's always been very nice about it."

"Hawke's always been very nice about what?" asked the rogue, limping over to the mage's side.

"Leaving dead bodies where they lay," he replied, gesturing at her to let him take a look at the slash through her calf. "In Amaranthine, it seemed like we were always dragging dead darkspawn around. Fire's really the only thing that will stop the taint, and where you get darkspawn, you get taint - living or dead."

Odd shrugged. "From what I've seen, the Legion doesn't feel the same. Dead's good enough for them."

Anders' face took on a slightly abstracted expression and his fingers lit with healing energy to close up Hawke's wound. "Oh, in the Dark Roads, the Wardens don't care much either. Most everything down there is tainted anyway. But both the Legion and the Wardens will burn darkspawn corpses if they're too close to Orzammar or the surface." His lips twisted wryly. "Well, I say that, but Sigrun used to tell me how the Legion liked to dump them in molten stone. Combines burning and burying all at once, she used to say."

"I don't think we need to burn the bodies," Shepard said. "But if Odd thinks they'll attract wild animals, I'd rather not draw them to the road and other travelers."

She moved to the nearest corpse and picked up it's legs. "Fenris and I will get started. Hawke, you can join us when Anders is finished with your leg, and then Anders, take a look at the ashaad. Merrill and Odd can break camp and have us ready to leave when we're finished."

"I am fine," responded Ashaad, automatically. "I will assist you in moving the dead."

Shepard gave the qunari a long look, and then shrugged. "Fine. But once we're on the road, I _will_ clean that," Shepard pointed at the long cut on his chest, "and take a good look at it."

Ashaad's mouth opened, but Shepard held up a hand. "No," she said firmly. "That's an order."

The qunari's mouth closed. After a moment, he gave a sharp nod of his head. "Yes, commander."

**-ooo-**

The ashaad's wound was fairly superficial. Shepard had him sit on the floor of the wagon, legs to either side, while she knelt between them and used a clean rag to wash the dried blood and dirt from the slash. When she was finished, Anders handed her a jar of ointment, which she applied liberally with her fingers.

After wiping her greasy hands on another rag, Shepard reached out to touch one of the intersecting lines of red on the qunari's abdomen curiously. "It's dye, isn't it?" she said with surprise.

The ashaad looked down at where her fingers rested against his skin. "Yes," he affirmed.

Shepard shook her head in a kind of abstracted way. "I thought at first it was painted on, but then they always seemed so crisp and never ran, so I thought they must be tattoos. But the edges are starting to fade." She raised her eyes to meet his. "Do they have meaning?"

He held her gaze for a moment. "Yes," he answered. "Are you finished?"

"What? Oh…" Shepard drew her hand away, and rocked back on her heels. "Yep, you're good to go."

The wagon was not meant for kossith. Even Anders had to duck his head a little when he stood up. Ashaad was bent almost double. Shepard suppressed a grin and watched the giant squeeze himself out the door. She rose to follow him.

"You actually _like_ him, don't you?" Anders asked, leaning his head against the wooden wall behind him.

"Who, Ashaad?" Shepard considered. "Yeah, I do. Although I liked him better when he wasn't trying to be my bodyguard."

"Do you like everyone you meet?" asked the healer with a hint of exasperation. "They make their mages wear collars, like dogs, and sew their mouths shut, you know."

"They what?" Shepard stared at him in shock.

"The qunari mages," Anders said, sitting up and leaning forward, elbows resting on his thighs. "Saarebas. If you think the Circle is bad, the tortures the qunari inflict on their mages are even worse."

Shepard's jaw firmed. "You've got to be shitting me."

"No," the mage gave a halfhearted laugh. "I wish I was."

"The qunari do not have maleficar or abominations, either," Fenris pointed out. He'd seemed asleep on the bench across from Anders, lean legs stretched out before him, arms crossed, and head resting on the wall. Now he lifted his head and looked at Shepard. "Do you know what the term _saarebas_ means, Shepard?"

She shook her head. "I've assumed it means something derogatory," she admitted.

"It means _dangerous thing_," the elf said quietly.

"_Thing_," snorted Shepard. "They're still _people_, Fenris."

The corners of the elf's lips curved slightly. "What do you think _basra_ means?"

Shepard's jaw sagged. "Really?"

Fenris shrugged. "I think it means something closer to _foreign thing_. But _bas_ is the qunari word for thing." The green of his eyes seemed especially bright in the gloom of the wagon. "You've been studying the qun, Shepard. You should know by now that everything which exists outside the qun is meaningless."

Anders snorted.

A frown creased Shepard's brow. "But that… I mean, if a kid's born with magic and is being raised to follow the tenets of the qun… the qunari don't waste anything useful. They find a use for all other talents, why not magic? Why would they cast them out?"

The elf shook his head. "They are not cast out. They are simply treated as what they have become - a dangerous thing."

"How can you say that?" Shepard growled. "You were a slave! You know what it's like to be chained, to be treated as a thing, as a possession!"

His eyes glittered slightly. "Know this, Shepard. Saarebas _volunteer_ to be chained. They know what they are. They know the danger they represent. They entrust themselves to their avaraad's keeping, because to do any less would be failure to the whole of the qun."

"That doesn't make it any less wrong," Shepard declared.

"And your pity doesn't make them any less dangerous."

"It's not pity, for god's sake, it's common decency! They're _people,_ Fenris. Not things. They have feelings; needs, wants, just like everyone else. They deserve to be treated that way!"

"And when they realize they can use their power to enslave others? That they can do whatever they please because they are stronger than non-mages?" Fenris growled, his voice low and tense. "Then you have the Imperium, where the magisters truly treat people as _things_ - to be used and discarded."

"Do you think I believe that's any _less_ wrong?" Shepard said hotly. "I _hate_ slavery, Fenris. Of any sort."

"Bah," spat the elf. "You will never believe that magic is dangerous, that mages are dangerous. You only see them as victims." He leaned forward suddenly, face alive with passion. "Ask Hawke about the dangers of magic. Or Orana."

With that, he shoved himself off the bench and swung himself out the door, feet hitting the road outside with an angry thump.

**-ooo-**

Shepard was quiet and withdrawn the rest of the day. She found herself thinking hard about Fenris's words. _Was_ she being blind to the danger of magic simply because of the way mages were treated in Kirkwall? Shepard had fought alongside Merrill and Anders. She'd faced blood mages and those things they called abominations. She'd seen magic's destructive power first hand. She _knew_ it was dangerous.

But she knew biotics were dangerous, too. She'd certainly seen what could be done by even a fairly weak biotic, and the memory of the way Jack - who was such a strong biotic she practically pissed eezo - had ripped apart the prison ship Purgatory was indelibly burned into her brain. Hell, she'd had more warp fields slapped on her than she cared to think about, where only luck and her N7 armor had kept her alive.

Yet many of her friends were biotics - Liara, Wrex and Kaidan were all biotics, and Jack was a god-damn biotic threshing machine. Thane had been a biotic. And while Shepard had never really come to trust Miranda the way she did the rest of her team, it had never been her biotics that were the issue.

On the other hand, Benezia had been a biotic. And Kai Leng had been outfitted with that… whatever the fuck it was… implant that allowed him to create mass effect fields.

But wait… They weren't threats because they were _biotics_, but because they'd sided with the enemy; Benezia indoctrinated directly by Sovereign, Leng through the Illusive Man's hubris in thinking he could control the Reapers.

_You're beginning to think in circles, Shepard._

Biotics were dangerous because of what they _did_, not what they _were_. Mages were dangerous because of what they _did_, not what they _were_. Anyone _could_ be dangerous, but it would be - with the exception of the Reapers, who could indoctrinate even when technically _dead -_ due to their actions, not their existence.

Then again, was that universally true? What if the asari had turned out more like the protheans? What if they'd used their natural biotic ability to conquer and enslave the other races? Wouldn't you have something like the Tevinter Imperium, only on a galactic scale? After all, they had a prothean beacon they kept secret for centuries…

_Shit, Shepard. What would you _do_ about it, provided you could even come up with the answers to all these questions? Smart money's on doing what you can to get out of here, not on solving this world's problems._

_Besides. You've given them a start on indoor plumbing. That should count for _something_._

She jogged behind the wagon alongside Ashaad, eyes and ears alert for disturbances but her mind worrying at the subject like a dog on a bone. After their second encounter with the bandits, Shepard had decreed that they would always have three people on very visible escort - one on either back corner of the wagon, and one on the wagon's roof. She hoped that the presence of armed guards would be enough to dissuade anyone else with entrepreneurial ambitions. She was _pretty_ sure that the majority of the bandits in the area were now dead, but all that _really_ meant was that a niche had opened up for new scavengers to take their place.

She sighed.

"You are troubled," said Ashaad, a hint of curiosity in his voice. His demeanor had thawed a little since she'd demonstrated the effect of her shields - the embassy was reopened, but there had been no overtures for a diplomatic summit. Shepard wondered if this was the prelude to one.

She sighed again. "Things are very different where I come from," she explained obliquely. "I… have trouble with some of the customary practices here."

"Yes," he agreed firmly. "In Par Vollen, there is no bandit filth such as we have encountered in this forest. It is… abhorrent." A brief look of disgust crossed the giant's normally impassive features. "I do not understand why it is allowed to continue here."

Shepard shook her head. "No, it isn't that." She tipped her head slightly. "You really don't have any theft in Par Vollen?"

The massive shoulders lifted and dropped. Shepard thought it might be the first time she'd seen the ashaad shrug. It was an expressive gesture, due in part to the sheer size of the body involved. "There is no need."

"What about the Tal-Vashoth?" Shepard asked. "They certainly seem to fill that role here."

Ashaad shook his head slightly. "They kill. They destroy. They do not steal."

"Ah."

They walked in silence for a short time. Then, "What troubles you?"

That wasn't just overtures for a diplomatic summit, but a declaration of intent to pursue a treaty of non-aggression and disarmament. Shepard's eyebrows rose and she quirked a little half-smile.

She took a deep breath and exhaled loudly through her nose before answering. "Magic, and mages," she admitted. "I know your people have a different outlook on it," she said hurriedly, to forestall any comment that might lead to an argument. "But it's not the way we do things where I'm from, so I'm… finding it hard to deal with."

Shepard squinted into the distance, which is why she noticed the far off glint of reflected sunlight. "Hold up a second, Odd," she called to the dwarf, already swinging Garrus over her shoulder to sight through the scope.

As she focused on the area where she'd seen the brief flash, there was a second one, and Shepard could see that it came from a steel shield which, along with a long-handled waraxe, was strapped to the back of one of a trio of armed men. In addition to the man with the shield, there was an archer with a longbow similar in style to Sebastian's, and a man wearing a longsword belted at his hip.

"What is it?" Odd asked, craning back over his shoulder to look at Shepard.

"There's some armed men ahead," she said. "Probably just travelers - they're on the road and making no attempt at hiding."

"Coming, or going?" the dwarf wanted to know.

"They're traveling in the same direction we are."

"Huh," said the dwarf. "We turned off the main route yesterday. Not many people apart from woodcutters and colliers use this track." He sucked on his teeth thoughtfully.

"What are they wearing, can you tell?" Anders asked from the roof, an odd look on his face.

Shepard smiled behind the scope and thought about cracking a joke, but decided it probably wouldn't translate well. "Armor," she replied. "Some kind of leather armor for one, and what looks like chain mail and plate on another. I can't tell what the third's wearing - I think it may be chain and plate as well, but he's got a big-ass shield strapped to his back that's obscuring it pretty well." She squinted slightly. "It looks like that one's wearing some kind of greaves - I can see the leather straps."

"Pretty safe to bet you're right about the plate, then," said Odd. "What do you want to do?"

"Let me talk to the others. On the surface, there's nothing about this that's particularly suspicious. My gut says to proceed, but with all due caution."

Shepard opened the wagon door and quickly filled in the others. They seemed to be in agreement with her that on the face of it there wasn't anything particularly out of the ordinary about a few armed travelers, but that caution wouldn't necessarily be a bad thing. It never was.

Shepard shut the door and moved up until she was level with the driver's bench. "We'll continue on at a walk. I'll keep an eye on them periodically, to be sure haven't ducked off the road to plan some kind of nasty surprise for us."

Odd nodded his agreement, but Anders still bore a slightly discomfited expression.

"Anders?" Shepard asked.

"I think," he began hesitantly, his face screwing up like someone trying to hear faint or far off music, "I think I might know who those men are."

"Oh?" Shepard couldn't keep the surprise out of her voice.

Anders shook his head, as if to dislodge a persistent thought. "I'll know for sure when we get closer," was all he added.

**-ooo-**

Anders refused to elaborate, but occasionally Shepard would catch him with that same searching expression as they traveled through the afternoon, stopping once to rest and water the mules and have a bite to eat. Normally, Shepard would have them switch off escort duty as well, but in this instance she gave Ashaad and Anders a rueful grin and said, "Hard luck for us, I'm afraid. If those men do attempt to set up an ambush, I want the ranged troops on point. That's us, I'm afraid."

For Anders, Shepard knew it wouldn't be a big deal. He was riding, after all, not walking. But she clapped Ashaad on the arm sympathetically. "Sorry, big guy."

The giant looked down his nose at her. "It does not matter," he snorted. "Our pace has hardly been taxing."

"Good man," she said approvingly.

Shepard walked with Garrus at low ready, often raising the rifle to her shoulder to peer through the scope. The afternoon was drawing out when she halted the wagon again.

"They've moved off the road," she said, sweeping the rifle to try to pick them up.

"How far ahead are they?" Odd asked. "There's a good spot to camp coming up - I'd planned to use it for ourselves - maybe a mile or so ahead."

Shepard nodded. "I can't see them, but I'd guess they were pretty close to two miles ahead of us - last time I picked them up they were just over a klick away."

Odd nodded. "Might have just stopped for the night. You want to go on, or stop here?"

Shepard frowned for a moment. "Any good stopping points before this place you're talking about?"

The dwarf squinted thoughtfully and spat between the mules. "There's a place where fire struck some time back and the trees are a bit thinner and younger," he said. "We could probably stop there, although it's only about a quarter mile on to the other clearing."

"Let's do that, then. We still don't have any proof that those men are anything other than fellow travelers."

Odd shook the reins gently and clucked at the mules, and the beasts pulled forward into their harnesses, starting the wagon rolling again. As it did, Shepard opened the door again and relayed the latest information.

They hadn't yet reached the burned out area when Anders swore softly from his perch.

"What is it?" said Shepard.

"You want the good news, or the bad news?" the healer asked, his voice heavy.

Shepard's jaw firmed, but she spoke lightly enough. "The good news, by all means," she replied.

"You don't have anything to fear from the men up there," he said slowly.

"And the bad?"

The mage smiled grimly. "They're Grey Wardens, and I'm a deserter."

**-ooo-**

It took a few minutes for Shepard to process that the same sense that allowed Anders to know if there were darkspawn in the vicinity also let him know if Wardens were present. But once she had, she moved immediately to the thorny bit.

"So if you can sense them at this distance, they can also sense you," she surmised.

A humorless grin was his response.

Shepard thought furiously. "Worse case scenario?" she asked, rubbing her bottom lip with her thumb.

"Worst case?" said Anders with a lift of his brow. "I suppose they _could_ kill me. But it's more likely that they'll want to strong-arm me into returning to whatever Warden outpost they're from."

"Hmmm," hummed Shepard. She took her hand away from her face. "Is there anything that marks you as a deserter?" she asked. "I mean, it's not as if they can radio to HQ and ask for your personnel file, right?"

Anders scratched at his head for a moment. "True," he said. "The only way they'd know I was a deserter is if they had contact with Edana, or rather, whichever lieutenant she left in charge." He frowned. "If she hadn't been spending more and more time away from Amaranthine, I might have stayed." He seemed to consider this a moment. "Maybe."

He laughed without humor, or perhaps with humor so dark it was hard to see in the fading light. "Or, of course, they're from Vigil's Keep itself. That would be awkward."

"How likely is that?"

The mage shook his head. "Not very. It's more likely that they're from Nevarra or Orlais. There are large Warden commanderies in both countries."

"Ohhh-kay," Shepard said slowly, drawing the word out. "They know you're out here, and it will probably make them curious if you stop before reaching them and saying hello, now that you all know you're here, right?"

Anders nodded.

"So we should probably just continue on to where they've set up camp, pay our respects, and let them go on their way tomorrow morning. Less suspicious that way."

"And if they want to know what I'm doing here?" Anders wanted to know. "The rest of you aren't Wardens."

Shepard shrugged. "Make something up."

The mage gave a snort of laughter. "You're completely unscrupulous sometimes, aren't you, Shepard?"

She shrugged again. "Whatever gets the job done. I prefer to be as straightforward as I can, but sometimes I have to do what's expedient rather than what's honest, to complete the mission. Scruples aren't always a luxury I can afford."

"You let the bandits surrender," Anders pointed out.

"I'm an Alliance officer," Shepard stressed. "I'm _obligated_ to accept an enemy's surrender, even if it's not always the wisest course - as was proved with the bandits." She took a deep breath. "My _goal_ is always the same - complete the mission with no casualties, civilian or otherwise, and no collateral damage." Her lips twisted wryly. "But it doesn't always work out that way. Then things devolve into a hierarchy of needs - protect civilians, then my squad and other friendlies, and finally property."

Odd gave her a shrewd stare. "What happens if you can't get the job done that way?"

Shepard met his gaze levelly. "Depends on how critical the mission is. If necessary, I will sacrifice whatever I have to."

The dwarf had seen a lot over the course of his life. He'd been born casteless, grown up in the harsh confines of Dust Town, and had memories of his time with the Carta that still gave him nightmares, but the bleakness in the human's eyes set him back a moment, leaving him no doubt whatsoever that in the past she'd done just that.

He found himself giving her a small nod of respect. "I suppose we should go say hello to our new friends, then," he said, clucking again to the mules.

**-ooo-**

The three Wardens were camped at the spot Odd had hoped to make before nightfall, a small clearing along the bank of a swift, chuckling stream no more than a half meter across. They looked up without surprise as the mules came to a stop at the end of the narrow, faded track that led from the road. Their camp had already been set, a small fire crackling in a shallow pit, three bedrolls laid out in a semicircle around it. A cast iron pot was nestled in a bed of coals scraped into a mound at the edge of the fire, and a blackened iron kettle was hanging on an iron hook driven into the ground so that it overhung the flames. The air held the hint of beans and bacon.

Shepard strode forward. "My name's Shepard," she said. "One of my men alerted me to your presence, and since we were looking to stop here for the night, I figured we could greet you and offer to share watch this evening. You're Grey Wardens?"

One of the men arched a dark eyebrow at her. All three had dark hair - two long and one short. This one also had stormy grey eyes and was wearing leather armor - the archer of the group. "You have a Warden in your company?" he asked, and Shepard understood the question under the question.

"I do," she confirmed, without acknowledging the deeper query. "Anders?"

As the mage stepped forward, the Warden by the fire frowned. "Anders?" he repeated with surprise.

Anders started as well. "Nate?"

A lightning fast smile flitted across the Warden's face, and he rose to his feet, striding across the clearing.

"It's good to see you still in one piece, mage," he said. He had a compelling voice; quiet, but possessing a dangerous burr.

"Of all the bloody Wardens to run into…" Anders grumbled. "And Stroud? And… is that Kell?"

The Warden Anders called _Nate_ gave a brief nod. "Indeed it is."

Anders raised a hand to his forehead. "Just my luck."

"Let me guess," said Shepard shrewdly. "They're from Amaranthine."

"Yes," Anders replied shortly. "I suppose I should make introductions."

Nate's lips twitched slightly. "You should," he said, his eyes traveling over Shepard's armored form. "Last I knew, you were with that Fereldan, Hawke."

"This Fereldan?" Hawke asked lightly, emerging from the shadows on the side of the wagon.

"Serah Hawke," said Nate with obvious pleasure. "It's good to see you again."

"You too, serah Howe," replied Hawke with a slightly teasing note. "And under better circumstances than last time."

Nate laughed ruefully. "True," he said.

Shepard looked curiously from face to face. "Old friends?" she asked.

"Maker… I'm sorry, Shepard," said Anders. "This is Nathaniel Howe, one of Edana's Wardens. We were recruited at the same time. Nate, this is Catriona Shepard, a friend of both mine and Hawke's."

"I am honored," said Nathaniel, crossing his arms over his chest and bowing to her.

Shepard dipped her head respectfully. "As am I," she answered formally. Then she folded her arms over her chest and rocked her weight back to one heel. "I'm afraid I must ask what you intend to do about encountering Anders here."

"Do?" Nathaniel's brow creased.

"I'm a deserter, Nate," Anders reminded him.

The other Warden gave him a long, searching look. "I know," he said finally. "And Edana would rather like to speak to you about that," he added.

"I'll bet," snorted Anders.

"She was more than a little put out with you, you know."

"So you said before. Can't say I'm looking forward to that discussion."

"Yes," Nathaniel said, his gaze sharpening on the mage. "She knows where you are. If she really intended to drag you back, it would have happened."

The two exchanged another long look, and Anders exhaled slowly. "Thanks, Nate."

The Warden shrugged, and gave another one of those lightning smiles. "Thank Edana," he said, and then motioned toward the fire. "In the meantime, please, share our camp."

That was the signal for Odd to jump down from the wagon and begin the process of unhitching the mules. Fenris, Merrill and Griffon emerged from the wagon's interior, and, as Shepard, Anders and Hawke followed the Warden to the fireside, Ashaad joined the elves in turning the wagon and pushing it closer to the fire.

The two other Wardens regarded the group curiously. "Anders," said one of them with a nod. He had a thick accent, long sideburns, and a long, mournful mustache. His eyes were a light hazel, the corners creased by fine lines, and he looked to be in his early forties. His thick black hair was just touched by a few threads of silver, and was cut neatly at his ears and the nape of his neck. He wore plate and chain, and a longsword lay by his side.

"Stroud," said Anders, offering the man a faint smile. "Kell," he added, nodding to the third member of the trio, a thickly muscled, rough-looking sort with his coarse black hair pulled back in a short ponytail the way both Varric and Anders favored, and a heavy growth of stubble on his cheeks. A thin scar creased his left cheek, dipping down to cross over his upper and lower lip, and his eyes were a startling shade of ice blue. He wore a curious combination of leather and plate mail, and was running a whetstone over the edge of his ax.

Kell gave the mage a grin, the scar making the expression look dangerous and unpleasant, but when he spoke, it was in a pure, well-modulated baritone. "What happened to you, peacock?" he asked with amusement. "You look more like a molting sparrow."

Anders swallowed and looked away. "Justice happened," he said quietly.

Nathaniel broke the awkward moment before it could stretch out. "Stroud, Kell - Lillian Hawke and Catriona Shepard."

"A pleasure," said Stroud, rising and giving the women a bow, right fist over his heart.

Both Hawke and Shepard dipped their heads.

Kell's eyes appraised them with approval. "Andraste's flames, peacock," he said. "How _do_ you manage it?"

"Manage what?" asked Anders, puzzled.

"All the people you _could_ have fallen in with, and you're with two beautiful women." Kell shook his head in exaggerated disgust. "I might just have believed it back when you spent an hour on your hair every day, but now?"

Anders flashed him a rare smile - a real smile, with a hint of cockiness to it. "Charm, Kell," he said loftily. "It's what I have and you lack."

Kell snorted good-naturedly. "Right, peacock," he said.

Shepard and Hawke excused themselves politely and went to help the others finish their tasks in setting up camp, leaving Anders alone with his former comrades. He lowered himself to the ground with a sigh.

"How's Edana?" he asked. "I heard about the wedding, of course."

A strange look passed around the group. "She's been… busy," answered Nathaniel. "We all have. There are still hardly any number of Wardens in Ferelden - less than thirty of us in all."

Anders' brow wrinkled. "Then what are you doing all the way up here? I would think there'd be enough to do within the borders without having to look abroad."

"There have been strange rumors," said Nathaniel evasively. "A lot of the more senior Wardens in Ferelden have been sent out to make sense of them. Edana included."

The corner of the mage's mouth lifted slightly. "She's slightly more than a senior Warden these days."

Kell laughed, and if his voice was pleasant in contrast to his appearance, his laugh was more of a match for it, being something of an rasping chuckle. "She complains that it's like she's a half-dozen people in one body," he said. "Sister to the Teryn of Highever, Arlessa of Amaranthine, Commander of the Grey, and Queen and Hero of Ferelden."

"It does sound a little crowded," Anders admitted with a slightly wider smile.

Nathaniel shook his head. "It's more than that. The First Warden just about had apoplexy when the betrothal was officially announced. Two Wardens on the throne of Ferelden? Plus an arling?" His lips dipped downward grimly. "He was less pleased when Edana told him that she fully intended to keep her duties as queen quite separate from her duties as a Warden, as would King Alistair. The relationship between Vigil's Keep and Wiesshaupt is… somewhat strained, at the moment."

Anders snorted in amusement. "I imagine it is," he said dryly, and then shook his head. "Poor Edana. I don't envy her."

"None of us do," said Stroud gently. He inclined his head shortly. "And what of you, Anders? What is it you do in this part of Thedas?"

"Following Shepard, at the moment. She's… studying ruins around the Free Marches," he offered, just as evasive as Nathaniel had been.

"A scholar, then?" asked Stroud, surprised.

"She wears armor well for a scholar," interjected Nathaniel.

"I suspect she wears everything well," commented Kell. "And nothing even better, eh, peacock?"

The mage's mouth curved with humor. "I wouldn't let her hear you say that, Kell. Shepard can be… abrupt… at times."

"Who is she?" Nathaniel asked. "She has the bearing of a leader."

"It's a long story," replied Anders. "If you really want to know, I'll let you ask her yourself."

"Ah," said Nathaniel. "It's like that, is it?"

"Yes. It's very much like that."

**-ooo-**

Shepard suggested they split the watch into five two-person shifts, to give everyone as much rest as possible. Nathaniel, who proved to be the leader of the trio, agreed, and offered to take his watch with Griffon, seeming much taken with the hound.

"You're a handsome brute, aren't you," he told the dog, rubbing Griffon's cropped ears. "Reminds you of Peregrine, doesn't he?" Nathaniel said to Anders.

"_All_ mabari remind me of Peregrine," replied Anders.

"He'd make two and a half Peregrines," commented Kell. "He's bloody huge."

"Who's Peregrine?" asked Hawke, smiling. Complimenting her hound was a sure way into Hawke's good graces.

"Edana's mabari," Anders said. "He was the runt of his litter - almost didn't make it. Edana hand-nursed him from a bottle. Needless to say, there was no question of him imprinting on anyone else."

"Smallest bloody mabari you ever saw," said Kell, shaking his head. "Not that it matters. I've seen him hamstring an ogre so Edana could bring it down. They're fierce, those two. And fearless."

"There's something about him…" Nathaniel murmured, cocking his head to look at the dog. "Around the eyes. Do you know his breeding?"

Hawke shook her head. "No clue," she said cheerfully. "He just showed up one day and refused to leave."

Griffon whuffed, as if to say, _damn straight I did_.

Nathaniel smiled and scratched the mabari's broad chest. "He's a noble beast, in any event."

"Except when he loses at Diamondback," offered Merrill. "He's really a terrible loser."

Griffon cocked his head at her and growled, then whined.

"It's okay, Griffon," she soothed. "I _still_ think you're adorable."

The hound's ears flattened, and he huffed at the elf.

"Merrill! You know how he hates the a-d-o-r-a-b-l-e word," Hawke chided.

"Sorry," apologized Merrill, contritely. "Although you are, you know."

The hound huffed again.

"He's still a better loser than Aveline," commented Fenris, from the shadows near the wagon.

"Maker, yes," said Hawke, rolling her eyes.

Shepard frowned. "I didn't think Aveline played."

"That's because Hawke won't let her very often," smirked Anders. "She really is a terrible loser."

"So's my pilot, Joker," Shepard laughed. "Terrible poker face, but he insists on playing, and then gets mad when he loses his shirt."

"Shall we have a game?" suggested Kell.

"Oh, no," groaned Anders.

"What, peacock?" said the rough-looking Warden. "Afraid of a friendly little game?"

"Yes," said the healer firmly. "And it's never a _friendly little game_ when you're involved, Kell."

Both Hawke and Shepard perked up at this.

"Oh?" said Hawke.

"Really?" said Shepard.

Anders threw up his hands. "No. I'm going to bed, right now."

Nathaniel laughed, a soft sound. "This sounds interesting."

"Don't do it," warned Anders. "You'll be lucky to escape with your smalls."

"Oooh," said Merrill brightly, "does this mean we finally get to play panty ante?"

**-ooo-**

The road began to rise steadily the next day, as it worked its way into the foothills. Though the surface remained smooth, the incline meant that the mules had to be rested more frequently, or their pace slowed to a walk.

Shepard opted to slow the mules rather than having to stop and rest them, judging it better to make continual progress. It also made it easier on whoever was on escort duty - jogging along the relatively flat forest road was a far sight easier than up the quickly increasing incline. Currently, that meant Anders, Fenris and Ashaad. Griffon had also finally been allowed by Hawke to walk rather than ride, and was bounding from smell to smell in an orgy of olfactory delight.

He'd also chased a rabbit.

Shepard relaxed on the bench inside, her shoulders resting against the rocking wall of the wagon, idly turning a small sphere in her hands, staring at the small pinpricks of light that winked against an inky background.

"What's that?" Merrill asked, gesturing at the sphere.

Shepard glanced up and caught the elven girl's eyes. "I don't really know," she admitted. "I won it off Nathaniel last night."

"Poor man," said Hawke, without the least hint of sympathy in her voice. "He really had no idea what he was getting into."

The Spectre laughed, and handed Merrill the sphere when the elf held out her hand in entreaty, silently asking to take a look. "He should have known better. That Kell's a fucking _demon_."

Merrill looked up sharply. "A demon? Elgar'non! I had no idea. He looked so, well, not _normal_, exactly, but like a human at least."

"Figuratively, Merrill," said Shepard. "Not literally. I meant that he was _very good_ at cards."

"I wonder what else he's good at?" quipped Hawke, and then clapped a hand over her mouth. "That… that was a very _Isabela_ comment, wasn't it?" she murmured around her palm. "Sorry. I think I must be missing her."

The rogue let her hand fall, and gave Shepard a sly grin. "Good job getting him off-balance by suggesting you teach us your game, by the way. What was it called again?"

"Hold 'em." said Shepard. "I was going to teach you Skyllian Five, but it's a little too similar to Diamondback. I wanted something he'd have to think about."

Hawke nodded. "I think it worked."

Merrill was twisting the dark globe back and forth. "It sort of looks like the night sky," she said. "Look, there's Ghilan'nain," she said, pointing at one set of sparkles. "See her horns? And here is Andruil's bow!"

The elf smiled and handed it back to Shepard. "I wonder if that Warden wishes he hadn't lost it."

Shepard smiled in return, and tucked it back into her pouch. "I offered it back to him, just in case it had some kind of meaning for him, but he said I more than earned it by humbling Kell."

"Anders has been chuckling to himself over that all morning," Hawke laughed. "Evidently, Kell loves to take advantage of people who don't know any better than to take him on in cards."

Shepard's smile turned smug. "Well, that should teach him," she said. "Between the two of us, I think he only managed to win about three hands."

Hawke rubbed her palms together evilly. "And that's only because you were playing _nice, _and I hadn't ever played before."

Merrill sighed wistfully, and set her chin in her hand.

"I still wish it would have been panty ante."

**-ooo-**

It took them another full day to reach the meadow below the forked peak where Morici indicated the ruin lay. After they'd set up camp and were eating Shepard's version of arroz con pollo - made with fresh quail Ashaad and Griffon had provided earlier, but Shepard couldn't remember the Spanish word for quail - Shepard filled them in on the next leg of their journey.

"The ruin is somewhere up there," she pointed at the mountains above them, though it was too dark by now to see them properly. "Between the fork in the peaks."

"Good luck in finding a path," snorted Odd. "That's practically a sheer cliff."

"I know," said Shepard. "We're not going to bother with a path. We're going straight up."

Hawke reared back. "I'm pretty agile, Shepard, but I'm not a lizard! I can't run up walls."

Even Merrill looked doubtful. "The trouble with climbing a wall isn't always going up. Mostly, it's coming back down," she said. "Unless you fall."

"We won't be falling," Shepard said. "And it will be easier than you think." She pulled a small metal object from her pouch. "This is a nut," she said, holding it up. "And this is a 'biner," she added, fishing in her pouch for a second object. "Tomorrow," she went on, "I'm going to teach Merrill and Hawke how to use them, and teach Fenris and Ashaad how to belay. Then the three of us," she indicated the women, "will begin an ascent."

"Once we get to the top, we'll secure the area and explore the ruin. Depending on what we find up there, I may want to stay a few days."

"Are you sure you know what you're doing, Shepard?" Fenris asked.

"Trust me," she replied. "Climbing is something every N7 is proficient in. I've climbed vertical walls in full armor, mag boots and a helmet, with twenty kilos of gear on my back," she said. "I know what I'm doing." She grimaced slightly. "The hard part was getting the nuts and carabiners made properly." Her lips dropped into a frown. "I'm still not sure I had them make enough nuts," she said. "Not to mention they're made of iron, not aluminum, so they're fucking heavy in comparison to what I'm used to."

Shepard dropped the objects back in her pouch and ran a hand through her hair. "The weight of the gear is my biggest worry, followed by the fact it's a blind climb - no telling what we'll encounter until we get there."

As usual, Shepard took the middle watch - bitch watch, they used to call it, as it was a bitch to be woken up and a bitch to get back to sleep after. Hawke had drawn bitch watch with her, and the two women currently sat a few meters apart, facing out toward the meadow and away from the glow of the fire behind them.

"Soo," said Hawke, after an hour filled with only the chirp of insects and the high cries of the bats that hunted them. "You and the Arishok, huh?"

Shepard stiffened slightly, and forced herself to relax. "There is no _me and the Arishok_," she snapped quietly.

"Right," agreed Hawke hastily. "But… what are you going to do about it? You told me he's not giving up."

Shepard scowled out into the darkness. "I don't know," she said shortly.

"Couldn't you… I don't know… challenge him to a riddle contest or something? Noughts and Crosses? Hold 'em? Say if you win, he has to give up this whole mating idea, and if he wins you submit to his qun?"

There was a grunt from the Spectre. "Challenging him is what got me into this predicament."

Hawke felt the burn of curiosity. "Oh?"

"Kossith females challenge their males when they are ready to mate." Shepard's voice was heavy.

"Oh, Maker," said Hawke.

"So when I challenged him," Shepard went on in the same morose tone, "I triggered some kind of… hormonal cascade or something. Now he's intent on mating with me."

Hawke was silent for a while. Then, "Can't you explain that it was a mistake? Maybe… treat him to a night at the Rose?"

"Tried it, and already offered to." If the Spectre's voice was any heavier, it would fall right from her lips into her lap. "It's specific, and once triggered it doesn't stop until the female conceives."

"Conceives?!" Hawke's sudden exclamation was sharp in the hush of the night.

"Sorry," she said in a softer voice. "Conceives?"

"That's the way it works. The biological imperative - leave as many copies of your genes in the world as you can before you die. Gotta love it."

"So he'll keep wanting to mate with you until you're carrying his child?"

"Evidently so."

"Maker!" Hawke's voice was awed.

"Tell me about it."

"But, Shepard… all you'd have to do is manage not to get pregnant, and you could have the leader of the qunari in your bed forever!"

"You make it sound like that's a good thing," Shepard groused.

"Well, _yes_," said Hawke. "Have you _seen_ him?"

"He's all yours," growled Shepard. "Just go up and pick a fight with him."

Hawke fell silent. "We should _never_ let Isabela find out about that," she said after a while.

Again, the night was left to the insects and bats and little scurrying nocturnal things. Probably owls, too, but they went about their work in perfect silence, the assassins of the bird world.

"What if you were to get pregnant by someone else?"

Shepard wasn't ready for the question, and felt the shock go straight to her core.

"_Hawke!_ What the shit?"

"Hear me out," said the rogue. "If this thing ends with conception, what happens if you conceive with someone else?"

"Besides the Arishok killing whoever volunteered for the job?" Shepard snorted. "It can't happen. I'm on birth control."

"On what?" Shepard could hear the rogue's puzzled frown.

"Birth control. Contraceptives. Stuff that suppresses a woman's…er…cycle."

"You can't get pregnant?"

"Nope."

"Never let Isabela find out how you do that, either." Hawke shuddered.

"Couldn't even if I wanted to," Shepard answered. "Biochemistry isn't my thing. Killing people's my thing."

Another long pause. "I suppose that's an option," Hawke said quietly.

"What is?"

"Killing him."

Shepard turned her head in the darkness. "What the fuck, Hawke?!"

"You could do it. Easily."

"So? You don't just kill someone because he's a persistent bastard with a hard on. Apart from the first time he realized what was going on, he hasn't tried anything _physical_. He just keeps telling me it's going to happen and reminding me that my body responds to his! It's annoying as fuck, yeah, but… you just don't shoot someone in cold blood for something like that."

Faintly, Shepard could see Hawke hold up both hands in surrender. "It was only a suggestion. You don't seem to have many options."

Shepard scrubbed her face with her hands. "You can say that again."

"And you're _sure_ sex is definitely out?"

"Hawke!"

"Just checking." There was only a slight pause and then, "What _did_ happen when he realized he wanted to mate with you?"

"I head butted him during an argument," Shepard admitted grudgingly.

Hawke snorted. "Not you. What did _he_ do? You said he hadn't tried anything physical apart from when he first realized what was going on."

"Did I?" Shepard asked, trying to sound surprised. "I must have misspoken."

"Nice try, Shepard," said Hawke with a low laugh. "Make it easy on yourself and just tell me. I'll get there anyway, and it will be less annoying for you."

"He… kissed me."

"Really? What was it like?" Hawke's avid curiosity was evident in her tone.

"What was it like?" Shepard repeated, incredulously. "What are you, twelve? It was like a kiss."

The rogue huffed. "I meant, did you like it? Is he a good kisser?"

"He was angry. I was angry. It wasn't a romantic moment."

"So yes, then." Hawke sounded smug.

"I didn't say that," Shepard argued.

"Yes you did," Hawke reasoned. "If you hadn't, you would have said no. Instead you said something about it not being romantic. Like _romance_ matters. The only important thing about sex is whether it's good or bad."

Shepard laughed. She couldn't help it. "You've never been in love, then?"

There was a startled pause, and then the rogue replied, somewhat cautiously, "We weren't talking about love. We were talking about sex."

"You were the one who brought up _romance_," Shepard pointed out.

Hawke's moment of awkwardness was gone. "No, you were. You said your first kiss wasn't romantic. Does that mean you _want_ the Arishok to romance you?"

Shepard groaned. "He's already trying." She scowled again and fidgeted uncomfortably. "And don't call it our first kiss. It was just… an overheated moment, okay?"

"Oooh, _overheated_…"

"Hawke," Shepard said in a warning tone, "you're starting to channel the pirate again. Stop."

"But…"

"Hawke, if you don't change the subject right now, I'll force you to watch krogan porn. You'll never want to have sex again, and Varric will be a very sad dwarf."

"Wait, how did you…"

"_N_-fucking-_7_."

* * *

_A/N: Oooh, next chapter y'all get to find out what's in the ruins. Are they really prothean? If so, do they hold the information Shepard needs to get her home? Will any questions be answered? Will I ever get my broadband back?!_

_Sadly, some of the Starbucks regulars are getting so used to me they say hi._


End file.
